Square Peg ~ Camp Widow 2010 ~ the rest of it

i am back. i am sorry for the pause. it became an afternoon and night of memories that swirled through my mind and i got swept up and lost. 18 months without him. i love him deeply and living without him is the hardest thing i have ever done.

i have written this out and read it and re-read it. i feel the fire being lit under my feet yet i am compelled to write it and post it. the things i overheard and the things that were said to me should be enough to allow me my own opinion on my own little thingy here. i hate the word blog. it sounds like flog and i do not want to flog or belabor any point. i simply want my perspective to be heard. *sigh* burned at the stake. i’ll try to tread carefully.

THE WORST OF TIMES ~ PART TWO

since i didn’t really get started it’s really part one, A. i know my tone of my writing has changed to a quieter one. it’s the aftermath of a night of restless snatches of dozing, then waking to sob. Bunny can still be funny, but it comes and goes. right now, i don't remember how.

picking up where i left off, i took Paris with me, but i didn’t find it there and i felt like a failure. to be honest, i broke down at Sunday brunch. this was from missing my Dragon and feeling like i got it all wrong. i misunderstood the meaning of Camp Widow. i brought my hopes of connecting with a great many people, but what i found was an intricate culture i realize i know nothing about, and the rules change from person to person, situation to situation. no matter how vehemently those who navigate these waters deny there are rules, believe me when i tell you, there were personalities there who carved their rules on my hand so i would have the crib sheet handy, so to speak.

1. i had hoped all the myriads of people who presented their lectures and ran the camp with see those of us who were fragile. i had hoped they remembered those days of coming out of the fog of loss only to now face the struggle of realizing we have to continue without them. i know my Dragon’s body is dead. i worked on him until the paramedics got there and relieved me to try, but his life force, my God, the man was legendary in his world, and in mine. for all these months i would fall into a daydream state and think, “he's so strong and survived so much out there in the world. surely he'll come back.” they don’t come back. i know my face bore the signs of all this suffering. i wanted people to reach out to me, but i failed to understand. i was supposed to do that work.

having said that, i think a lot of people did not seem as observably raw as i felt. i have done so much of my grieving alone so i guess i am behind the curve. i saw so much laughter, boisterousness. i saw a community with such pervasive awareness of the goings on within it that i felt like a foreign traveler in a place i was supposed to have been for 18 months. there were so many who were current on all the various bloggers and books that the staff, ambassadors, and speakers had written. so many walked up already knowing the faces of their favorite people. join the fun. it’s tears. it’s laughter. it’s Camp Widow.

but what about me? i'm reserved, not because i'm grieving, but by, i guess now having been to Camp Widow, by birth defect. it has never been as crippling as it was there though. i was told that the only word i said the whole first month of first grade was “here” and that was in deference to roll call. i am a more thoughtful person.

this is where the English language gets me in trouble. i said that i am more thoughtful. that sentence is meant to convey the 3^rd definition of the word thoughtful: occupied with or given to thought; contemplative; meditative; reflective. i was not implying that no one was thoughtful. i was trying to convey that i do not have the confidence to strut over to a group of unknown people, introduce myself, and join the fun. i accept the blame for this. there is no requirement that they reach out to me simply because they have set up a weekend for widows.

i wanted to have fun, but i also wanted to meet people and talk to them. i wanted to listen to them and in turn be heard. i carefully selected the workshops but my first one fell so short. i sat there thinking, “they gave me a whole table. even though it will be a little early, i’ll go sit there and then i can really talk to people.” i also wanted to honor the gift of being given that spot. i need the commission work. i didn’t go to the other lectures and from the people who trickled in cutting their lectures i think it was the better choice for me.

i had wonderful conversations with women; one of who, with her mother, gave me the most valuable moment i have had since my Dragon died. they held my Full Moon and Dragons embroidered handkerchief and then asked, “who was your Dragon? tell us a little about him.” i got to tell two people about him. they now know a little bit about why i cry. i am a widow so a man obviously existed once but to talk about him, tell them a couple of stories and not see they glance at their watch, to have them encourage me to speak, to have here mother rub my arm and look at me with such understanding of the pain i am still swimming in, gave me hope that later in the day, i would connect with others. i got to help so many that way when i talked about making the quilts for them, but beyond that, that was the only time someone looked at me as an individual beyond being just a head count. i did have some crazy conversations that made me realize, no one has a clue. they just do and say anything to save themselves.

2. the keynote address used a rock climbing metaphor to inspire us to get out of our grief. we’ve fallen down into a canyon and we need to get out. there are people on the wall, others who have gone before us. there is no right way or wrong way to get to the top. we each have our own path. sometimes we have to go down to go up. it’s a struggle. seeing others on the wall is our blessing and our hope. we can do this. and when you get to the top, reach over and help someone up.

it was longer and more eloquent, but that’s basically it in a nutshell. it’s a really good speech. but i have this tendency to analyze what i’ve heard or read to see what, if anything, applies to me. i kept thinking about the sentence, “those who made it to the top reach over to help someone up.” it seemed off. the person they are helping is almost to the top as well. it’s physiology. no one’s arms are long enough to reach over from the position of having “made it out” to help those who could really use a hand, or a pat on the back, or a tissue. and that’s what hit me hard this weekend in San Diego and i saw play out over and over again in my small area that i existed in. i wasn’t everywhere at once so my view was limited, but what i experienced, no one reached for me. everyone seemed so much more alive, so much further along, and so ready to have a great time that i felt like a failure. unless you brought a friend with you, or are gregarious by nature, you are sidelined.

as i had said, i went to the first workshop i signed up for. it was about writing. the woman who ran it was a widow who now taught this new way to write. this is what i wrote to the prompt “the thing about it is…..”

the thing about it is i do not know why i am here. i am not ready to embrace being a widow when i still feel like a wife. i do not feel empowered. i feel okay laying here on the canyon floor. the world has stabilized a bit from the earthquake his death brought about. lying here, the ground is actually quite soft. dark green moss cushions me and smells lush and woodsy from all the rain that comes as my tears slide down my face even when i don’t realize i’m crying. i can see the sun. i can feel its warmth way down here and i bask in it at times. i can see the clouds float by. i can see the others climbing up on the wall and that’s good for them. i am happy for them. i just don’t feel the urge or have the strength to climb out yet like i’ve been told is supposed to happen. i’m content to lay here on my back looking at Heaven, to where my Dragon has flown. and who’s to say up is my way out.

i have a feeling that if i showed the woman what i wrote, she would have said something to the affect that this is my truth and that’s fine for you but you’ll get it soon and then she would turn away from me. the one question i did answer for her when she spoke to me as i was leaving Sunday didn’t make her happy. she asked if i had gotten some work. i said that if the ones who said they would did indeed contact me, i had work waiting for me. her bright smile said success. but then she asked if i had had lots and lots of fun. i said that i had had a nice long talk with a person that had made me feel okay about myself. her smiled faded and she looked at me blankly. then she turned away. very busy woman. i felt it wasn’t the answer she had wanted so she dismissed me. i went to join my friend to go to the airport. it wasn’t the last little uncomfortable feeling before leaving the hotel that day.

3.A. square peg and the popular group. i felt like i was back in high school. the room i sat in at my table of quilts also had a local bookstore representative with lots and lots of wonderful books plus the list of books on grief from all the authors present at the conference. lovely lady. she had quite the interesting perspective on grief books. a young woman came rushing in after some lecture wanting a book about getting her own grief story published. the bookseller asked, “oh, you’ve written your manuscript?” the young woman said, “no, but now that the insurance money has started coming in, i’m quitting work to write my story. everybody’s doing it here. i’ve talked to lots of women who are writing and getting published.” the bookseller smiled and said, “i guess that’s true. writing is a good way to help yourself through bad times. the grief market is saturated with books right now. i can only recommend that you get your title and start from there. it’s the hook. you have a hook, you have a book. all these books are essentially the same. they are about one person’s journey through their own grief. i’ve read them all. to sell them, i need to know content and they are fundamentally the same. Don’t get me wrong. They are all good books and the personal details are different, but they are really saying the same thing. it’s the title that guides you to your specific point. you have a hook, you have a book. title is everything.” the young woman thanked her profusely for this insight. it was an interesting perspective.

our eyes met across the room and she asked me, “you have a book, too?” i told her i was finishing my 4^th manuscript and none of the books were about grief. all the manuscripts were simply sitting on a portable memory strip. they are all psychological horror and drama. for there to be 4 i obviously started them years ago when my husband was still alive. she smiled and gave me her personal email. she wanted to read a few pages of them. we had a lovely long conversation about books on topics other than grief and about each other’s live. lovely, lovely woman.

3.B. in the room were also six or seven authors with tables displaying their books, their good works, what they have created from their grief. but for one who was more casual, they were all made up for public appearances, which was a good thing since a television camera came in. i sat at a table covered with quilts and embroidered dragon handkerchiefs, sock animals, and a pillowcase wearing a giant star shirt that i thought was whimsical and heavily embroidered jeans. i don’t do public appearances. i feel privileged to appear at Wal-Mart once every two weeks and have money to spend on food. so i sat and they sat, sort of. they texted. they posted. they were bent over their little phones ~ very busy. i didn’t want to interrupt. they got up and walked out. i could hear them talking. “my editor says this.” “my editor says that.” they came back in and i looked up and smiled and nodded. none of them came up to me.

i sat there for over 7 hours and smiled and nodded like a little bobble head. they heard me talk to the men and women who came up to me. they heard me say, “his birthday was thursday.” “it’s my first time to go anywhere since he died.” “i work at home and do not have a support group.” when the people who talked to me left, i’d glance around. i’d smile a small smile at them. my eyes flicked up for eye contact, but then i'd look down when no one spoke to me. i’m shy. it’s hard for me. you’re famous, and busy. reach out. please, reach out to me. i tried

Schopenhauer but these people didn't pick it up.

nothing. not one word. oh, wait, one widowed author did walk over with her husband to ask if what i did was truly considered art. i didn’t engage her for two reasons. one, if i had i might have been tossed out. she has clout in this new widowed culture. she told me so. i can’t afford to alienate anyone with my differing opinion, but yes, what i do is considered art by some. secondly, i didn’t have to try because she ignored me anyway. she was busy. she had one of those phones and was incessantly texting/tweeting/twittering/emailing.

maybe it’s the new wall. my generation used political unrest and music to build a wall to keep out the people we knew wouldn’t understand us. maybe this time around it’s the unfathomable wall of being unable to hold a conversation without typing into a networked phone. how do you stand up for yourself to someone who has dismissed you as she stares into the little screen on her phone? she got a tweet or text or email or google alert {i know the lingo} that she was “in” somewhere and someone was going to “mention” her on television, anyway, off she went, husband in tow; which brings me to…..

4. some of the widows brought their husbands. the leader of the organization had her fiancée working it. he seemed like a lovely man. as i was being formally introduced, someone took him away. i never got to tell him my name. very busy people.

let me say that no one is happier than me that these men and women have found another love. i am happy for anyone who meets someone who brings them such joy and such peace that it can only be celebrated by another marriage. having said that, for those of us who are raw and vulnerable, who came to the conference to find relief, it is hard to see widows and their husbands, the new ones. for those of us still shattered who came to find solace at a widow’s conference, i am not sure if this was an oversight, or if it was purposely set up to prove to us that life goes on and goes on very well. i got an earful from one woman who i am sure speaks for herself, but, i don’t know. her tag said ambassador or board member or speaker. anyway, she was important to the conference.

she came over to me to look at my things on my table. then she asked how long had my husband been dead. she did it like this, “dead how long?” it was like answering survey questions, but i was glad someone with a fancy ribbon had come to talk to me. i thought maybe someone had sent her to check in to see if i was okay. no. she was just killing time. she asked if i was dating. when i told her i cannot conceive of it she vehemently launched into me that i had it all wrong. dating was part of the healing process. i had to date. i would find love and “only in finding love again will you honor your marriage to your husband who died. i’m not saying you have to get married. live with him. do whatever you want to do, but get out there. it’s the only way to honor what you had. it says to the world, you’re capable of love because you had it once. it means you’re over it.”

i wish i was kidding. i’m not. she said those words to me.

i didn’t say anything. i merely looked at my hands. i knew we would never reach an accord and she seemed more than willing to tell me how to correct all my mistakes so i said nothing. i don't believe i gave ground. i simply chose the obstacle of silence.

i had wanted to tell her about Widower Howe, the gentle man i had written about last fall but i didn’t want her calling him a wimp or telling me he had gotten it wrong. i think that if you don’t want to date, it does not lessen the marriage you had. you don’t have to be a remarried widow to prove you loved your dead husband. you can show how wonderful your marriage was by not dating or getting married again. there were no stone tablets of laws and rules at the Camp Widow registration desk so i’m thinking it’s okay for me to love my husband as i do even though he’s dead.

3.C. i know, sorry. the “stars” of the event. i didn’t get it. i have read lots of books on grief. i have not read any of theirs. i didn’t know about them. they didn’t come up in the card catalog at the library. the first book i went to was C.S. Lewis. you know the one. beyond his, they all were saying the same thing, so i stopped wearing out my library card on them and went back to the Jack Reacher novels, anything by Frederick Forsyth, and everything else. the stars didn’t have to reach out to anyone. it was never long before they were approached. they signed autographs. they had their photo taken. the women that needed this were so excited to see these stars of sorrow. i know. that doesn’t sound nice but, you know, it wasn’t meant to sound bad. these authors have joined what i overheard one woman refer to as the New Cult of Grief. when she saw i had overheard i smiled at her and she smiled. she rolled her eyes and bought a wonderfully hysterical little book called Porn for Women. look it up. i hate to give away an ending.

everyone had an opportunity to go meet the stars because on Saturday night they lined up for the chance for us little people to meet them. there was a crush. so many getting more photos and i just couldn’t do it. i just wasn't interested and there were so many women lined up. i was hurting. it was a party atmosphere and the some of the songs were sad. i could not hear anyone. reading lips is not easy when you cannot hear one word to put what you thought you saw in context. the bobble head was back. i nodded a sort of yes and kept my seat. i really tried joining in but my feet hurt and the empty place where my heart was hurt.

i got a younger woman, she got a grant from a foundation to help her, really nice young woman, to go for a walk outside. we had a nice talk and saw the fireworks. those few minutes were nice. but i stayed away from the stars and simply watched. i wasn’t comfortable joining people i didn’t know talking about a book i hadn’t read. they talked a lot about their editors and television appearances and web appearances. the ones i actually got to see are now married or have new relationships. what i didn’t ask, wanted to but didn't, was, when they are out, not at a widow’s convention, but just out at the grocery store and someone asks, “are you married?” what do they say? “i’m a remarried widow. my book is titled…..” i am trying to understand the concept of a widow who is married. i am not old, at least i don’t think i am, but i am trying to learn a new dialect and new culture and i am getting lost. if you marry again, weren’t you widowed, but now you’re married? you have to check married if you file joint income tax.

a man four rows behind me in the first lecture asked the woman in front of him to explain it, and she couldn’t. the man was close to my age but the woman was young so i do not think it’s a generational thing. i feel i must apologize for being confused. i was corrected on this when a woman said, “yes, i am married but i am actively a widow. i’ll always be a widow. it’s who i am and i am embracing it. i tell people i am a widow when asked my status even when my husband is standing there.” it just threw me. i don’t think they are all like that but i did see quite a few.

i do have to say that one of the stars did introduce themselves to me as i was outside the hotel waiting on the shuttle to the airport. this person was saying good-bye to my friend and so, well, i was standing there. “hi, my name is -----------.” yes. you saw me sitting next to your table for 7 hours on Saturday. and i sat in your line of sight Saturday night. “i’m (insert my first name here.)” that’s all i said.

what could i say? it was too late to reach out. the shuttle pulled up and i had to leave. i looked at my feet and left. this person finally acknowledged me because i was standing right there with someone they had talked to and hung out with. was it an awkward introduction forced by association? did this person feel pressured to speak because it finally would have been too obvious that they ignored me? i was told this person was so very nice. i guess it’s my fault for not bellying up and forcing myself into introducing myself. i guess that’s what they are used to and maybe i seemed strange. see what i mean about failing?

isn’t it weird when you feel ashamed when you aren’t sure what you did wrong?

5. i am not going to steal his thunder in case he ever blogs about it, and i hope he does, but Dan Cano had the most wonderful ideas he presented for a session. i love his ideas. they would have helped me and the other heartbroken people i saw, the ones who aren’t yet ready to party but wanted so much to be a part of this convention. sadly, Dan’s ideas they were rejected for this year. there has to be a light in the dark and for me, Dan was it at Camp Widow. i broke down and his words and gentleness reaching out to me comforted me and gave me the ability to calm myself. he did it by seeing me. he did it by knowing how i felt. he heard my breaths shuddering as deep sob. and he heard me say, “i miss him so much.” Dan reached out and that’s more than i can say about all the stars and important people who shine in the nightmare world of sorrow.

6. the Saturday night ball. A. the music was very loud. my tinnitus was excruciating. B. i felt the line up of the bloggers for publicity or fan photos was odd. C. after the music started, quite a few widows left to go back to their rooms. i leaned over to one woman at my table and i asked if she and her friend wanted to go outside for a walk with me. she smiled but turned me down. “we’re just going back to our room to talk. this isn’t for us. i’m sorry. it’s just, we came together and we don’t know you.” when a shy person builds up the courage to try once, and gets shot down, they do not try again for a long time.

and D. i really wish i could tell this story. it’s a doozy. but i cannot risk it. suffice to say it was so rude it is not to be believed. i was shocked into silence when this person said this to me and i left the ballroom immediately after. and as it is now, with all i’ve written, i will most likely be burned at the stake. i know. no more all caps. i’m spent, but i got it all out. almost all. enough that when i post this my heart will race and my palms will sweat. i’ll probably cry but, “to think own self be true.”

my Dragon would be proud i am being so honest. he’d want me to finish point D. but i think it’s best to leave it at: there are some outrageous people out there.

on the long plane flights home i had time to think. i did come to a realization that i am not wrong. i know myself. i know my limitations and i know what i am willing to risk. no one knows my whole story though poor Deb got a tip of the iceberg for which i again apologize. but when you meet someone you feel you can trust, and you’ve been as isolated as i’ve been, you want someone to understand a little of what makes you like you are. ah, well. Deb promised to never repeat what she heard.

i did get something else beyond my wonderful time with Dan, Boo, and Deb. i got it on my own. i know that i am a rule breaker. i’m not militant. i listen very obediently to those who get in my face, but i quietly defy them by going my own way anyway. maybe i will be the Amelia Earhart of grief. i will fly alone on my own path. i won’t be writing any books. releasing my demons here is enough for me. i will fly alone in search of a dragon, my Dragon. for however long it takes, i will wait for him, search for him, listen for him.

i think i will honor our love and marriage by allowing myself to feel like i’m married to him even if it rocks the widowed world. i’ll be like Widower Howe. both feet in this world but my heart has gone on ahead.

i’m glad i went even if the stars and the powers-that-be see me as a failure to write off. i’m glad i’m home. i love my three friends. i don’t think i’ll return to another Camp Widow. i’m not a party girl. i like what i had with the women who stopped at my table to talk to me. i like what i had with my friends on Sunday morning. i don’t think i’m wrong. i’m just different. i love the ocean. i love taking photos. i love sewing for people. i love my Dragon.

Square Pegs ~ Camp Widow 2010

or Bunny tells it her way.

Bunny was there

but Bunny was square

She wasn’t the life of the big party.

Bunny was shy

but she’s always been shy

and she didn’t feel all that hearty.

see Bunny’s still sad

yes, very, very sad

she misses her Dragon so much.

she had hoped Camp Widow

would be her big chance

for kindred spirits’ minds to touch.

but there were lectures

talking faces galore

so she kept her little mouth shut.

the stars were out

the paparazzi in tow

Shy Bunny got lost in the glut.

now Bunny’s not one

to impose on those

she doesn’t really know at all.

so Bunny hung back

and only talked to those

who saw Bunny with her quilts by the wall.

Bunny took quilts

Bunny took sock friends

she took all the things that she sews.

and there were those

who smiled and chose

to talk to Bunny and that made her glow.

it was worth the trip

it was worth the time

it was worth swallowing all her fears.

to go and be seen

yes, people saw Bunny!

and she’ll be warm from that memory for years.

"Sock" Beach Bunny with her Tribute Tile from Camp Widow that she cried over when she first saw it, and a sea urchin that her friend, Boo, bought her when they walked by the water.

and with her trusty pad of paper and pencil.

well, hell. Bunny may as well use a chisel on stone.

all the tweets and uploads that were going on around her,

and Bunny uses a pencil and spiral to jot her thoughts down.

give Bunny a second as she bolsters herself to face the inevitable teasing to come.

what can I say about Camp Widow and not be BURNED AT THE STAKE? {can't you just hear that judge raising his voice from Ghostbusters II?} i know what i can say. *ahem* *cough* *delaying tactics* “it was the best of times. it was the worst of times.”

THE BEST OF TIMES

1. it was located in a beautiful place. it was by the ocean. my room was on the 18^th floor and i sat out there a lot. fresh air with a tinge of salt in it. wind. gulls. fog. oh, my Lord, it was all there. *big drum roll here; timpani drums and cue words* the Pacific!

have i ever told you that my Dragon trained over the Pacific? and by over i mean he did his first HAHO / free-fall at terminal velocity for night insertion qualification -- thingy (he laughed when i didn't know how to finish something he had told me that i wanted to make it sound so big and impressive so "thingy" was how i finished it -- somewhere out over the Pacific? he had to hit the deck of a ship at sea that was running dark. he did it the first attempt. how flippin' cool is that? Dragon silently swooping in from twelve o’clock.

i

went to one workshop. the first one. it wasn’t what i expected so afterwards, i went to sit at a table reserved for me for the rest of the day. i knew i wouldn’t be missed. they didn’t take roll.

{INTERRUPTION: note how laidback Bunny is being. she’s using contractions. Oxford rules be damned. Bunny had a very, very, (okay, Dan, i remember i was gasping to breathe so one more) very tearful epiphany and she is, no she’s ~ she’s going to try to remember it’s okay to use contractions. breathe, girl. just breathe.}

2. sitting at the table with quilts, handkerchiefs, sock animals, a pillowcase i’d made as a surprise gift, purses out of jeans, and a little photo album as portfolio that my daughter made up for me, people trickled in and out. there was the chance for that much welcome one-on-one sharing that i really needed and had hoped would have been the rule. most came in actually during lectures they snuck out of saying, “it wasn’t exactly what i had thought it would be.”

if the women that swore they wanted quilts do what they say they will do, i will have 5 quilts to make. my fingers are crossed. i'd cross my toes but then my shoes won't fit.

also, in choosing to sit in the room with the other vendors, i got to talk to these women who trickled in and hear their stories. how this man died. how that family got to say good-bye. what this man meant to his family and all the shirts he had that she still has and doesn’t know what to do with. this woman liked all the randomly placed embroidery. that one cried when i showed her how i can make a shirt be sewn into a quilt and a person still be able to slip it on, to feel it against their skin and then, with the arms through their beloved’s sleeves, bring the quilt around them and hug themselves, to hold themselves, to keep all the fragile pieces of themselves together. i listened and offered peace. i heard the timbre of their voice and offered my hands and my ideas for them.

when they walked away with one of my brochures talking with their friend or simply looking at the photos and reading it, i felt like i had helped. i told myself, when they go home and look at all the clothes they’ve been saving and commission me for a quilt, i can give them something that gives them a bit of peace.

i know. it's right out of the 60's but i mean it differently. peace of mind. peace of heart. the peace of being still inside yourself and just breathing. reliving a memory and it not tear you apart. inner peace.

for example, i made a pillowcase as a surprise for someone there. i typically do not, i mean don't, i don't get to see the faces of the people i send the finished quilts to. this time i got to see. i brought the pillowcase to this person and when this person saw it and realized it was my gift…..the eyes say it all, and the embrace. some things are too powerful for words. that look. i got to see it. that moment when they hold a quilt, or in this case, let a pillowcase i’ve made from the rest of the clothes touch their face and know they can rest their head on it, breathe it in from now on, i feel a little bit more like the real person my Dragon saw.

3. Boo, Dan, and Deb were there. oh, my, the feeling of finally meeting people you trust. little note, the word trust. it will come up again. only those who have been taught the hard opposite of that word can truly appreciate its value.

{INTERJECTION: note there is only one photo of Bunny here and it was not taken at Camp Widow. Bunny has almost 200 photos from Camp Widow and she is still color correcting the images. sadly, aside from being born reserved, Bunny was born a perfectionist. color correction is critical to her. Bunny loves color. she was gifted with her first color wheel in an art class in second grade and never let it go. besides, most of Bunny’s pictures are of the water and the architecture, a random seagull that flew overhead that completely fascinated Bunny and took her mind away from reality for a second, and the following: Boo. Dan. Boo & Dan. Deb. Deb & Boo. Deb & Dan. and the always popular Deb, Dan, and Boo. none of the previous names are in any order of ranking so do not try to read between the lines. Bunny wrote it by sound and beat. she likes the way it rolled off her tongue, the one in her head that she listens to when she writes. it’s the one that told her, "now this will sound good when they do the Broadway play of your life." see that? see that there? Bunny can be funny. now back to your regularly scheduled reading of Bunny telling it her way and trying not to be BURNED AT THE STAKE!!!!! you can hear that judge's voice ~ that actor from Ghostbusters II, can't you?}

THE WORST OF TIMES

okay, it was not the worst of times. Dickens and his gift for hyperbole. men can be such babies. but it fits, in its own way. i had gone there with expectations and my expectations were not realized. t

hey say if you don’t take Paris with you, you won’t find it there. i went to Camp Widow with the expectation of being with people who would be able to look at my face and see how i was doing. they had all be through it. they knew the signs. they knew how hard things could be. they understood the Almighty Calendar of the Passing of Time. birthdays, anniversaries, wedding anniversaries. it’s been 18 months today. a year and a half. a year and six months. however you say it, it's been too long without him.

i thought they would see it in my face, in the quietness of my body, and i thought they would remember those times that they had survived. i thought they would accept my little smile and nod. i thought they would stick around to talk to me. i thought they would care. i told the strangers i met there. his birthday was the day before the flight. the 18 month anniversary of his death was yesterday/today since he died 3 minutes after twelve.

timing matters. ask an emergency room doctor trying to save a patient on Christmas Day. i wonder, if you get them drunk enough to loosen their secrets, if any of them would admit to cheating on the time by a few minutes for the the death certificate so that the family doesn't remember Christmas Night as the night they lost their dad/mom/son/daughter.............

this anniversary, these Dragon days reminds me of when i fell victim to a medium case of hypothermia one winter day, and my Dragon's panic in trying to get me warm. he had his cell in his pocket ready to call 911, the car keys in his pocket to wrap me up and run for an ER if the shower didn’t work take, if the whiskey-laced hot tea didn’t perk me up, if the hot stew took too long bringing color back to my ashen face. he finally got me back and we laid together ~ entwined ~ on the sofa…………

and he whispered in her ear, “i don’t know what i’d do if i lost you. you’re my very soul.”

Bunny needs to take a short break right now. she’ll finish this later on and post it separately. she’s a little overcome with melancholia and memories. and if she is going to be true to herself and not be BURNED AT THE STAKE!!! {don't tell me i can't entertain myself}, she wants to be clear-headed when she finishes this part.