intimate thoughts

i miss him. it is not really getting any better. it is just longer between heart-wrenching crying jags.

"being in grief, it turns out, is not unlike being in love. in both states, the imagination is entirely occupied with one person … everything that touches us seems to relate back to that center; there is no other emotional life, no place outside the universe of feeling centered on the pivotal figure." ~ Mark Doty

i had always sort of wanted to wander around this place, inside as well as out. it is an old place that had its exterior done over after a huge storm one season. but i have seen photos of its insides. just a few, in the basement of the Rockport Library where the historical documents are kept. it has its secrets. i always wanted the chance to explore this place on my own. now i only dream about it.

"to live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it:
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go."
~ Mary Oliver, “In Blackwater Woods

"there is eloquence in screaming." ~ Patrick Jones

and i have screamed into my pillow quite a lot of late.

especially with this third bout of pneumonia in this year of our Lord 2011.

i need his care and comfort.

i need his hot tea.

i need his warm body to keep mine warm.

i need his cool cloths to keep my fever down.

i need his big hands to rub that stinky Vick's on my chest that he never minded doing,

so i can breathe.

when i had pneumonia while he was alive,

he would put his large, warm hand on my chest and calm my fears,

help me relax to find my breath.

he would breathe with me,

unison,

symmetry,

each inhale a little deeper than the one before.

i want him back.

3 times in 8 months is too much to do alone.

i think the worst part of this is the incessant remembering that i couldn't save him.

no one could save him.

in this day and age of commercials saying,

"i survived the widow-maker; take this pill and you can, too,"

no one could save him.

least of all me.

and he is better, handsomer, cuter, more needed by me than those actors on those commercials.

i love him best of all.

i need him most of all.

"i have ever since {he died} seemed to myself broken off from mankind; a kind of solitary wanderer in the wild of life, without any direction, or fixed point of view;

a gloomy gazer on the world to which i have little relation."

~ Samuel Johnson

i sometimes wonder how i am doing this alone and then i remember,

i don't have a choice.

they tell you, "just breathe."

easier said than ..........

separation anxiety

hello, my Love, can you hear me? where you are? do you know i’m still down here, longing for you, missing you? or are you protected from the travails of this life? am i writing only to myself, to be heard by myself only, which means this is a pointless endeavor? but if in writing this, if it comforts me and gets it all off my mind, it is not time wasted. maybe it is time spent getting through this latest mood. writing is what i have to say things i cannot say outright to my children. and it is not like i can call up a friend and say, “i need to talk about this. i need you to come visit me, maybe have lunch.” i am not connected to anyone here. not like that.

so here i am, writing to you knowing that when i check back, there will be no answer.

i’m still here. i still miss you as much as the night you died and i wish i could talk to you face-to-face. i need you. i am in pain. i am not sure if i am supposed to be “better” by now or not. i am not even sure what “better” is supposed to feel like. i can honestly say i am further along than i was based on the fact that i no longer cry multiple times a day and there are days i do not cry at all, but i am pensive everyday. i am melancholy, which i guess can be looked at as the lighter side of sadness. that is a kind of improvement from where i was in those first months.

i am lonely for you. i pine for you. i miss you terribly. i do not need to fill my calendar with a plefora of people. i really only want you. i admit i am weak sometimes and would not mind having a friend i could call. i would like to talk about you and tell someone stories about you without fear of being interrupted or the awareness that, like in the grief group i went to for a while, that people are simply biding their time, half listening, until they or someone else jumps in to take over, and then i am forgotten. the kids tell me i do not stand up for myself anymore. our daughter is especially angry with some of the things that have happened to me and i know you would be mad as hell. but what i feel is that i could get mad and tell people how their actions and inaction has affected me, but they quite simply will not care. i was a only blip on their screen and that is okay with me. i really only want to be with you.

i wish you had not had to go. i really need you to go through this life with me. i am tired. i feel so weak sometimes that i am not sure if i can do this yet there is no other choice. the kids are grown so it is not like i have to wake up and say, “i am here for them. i have to get them through school, or through college.” we did that. the realization that life is going to be this quiet for the rest of my life is a terrible thought especially considering how far i am from the ocean. day in and day out i will be without your laughter, your voice, and your touching me. it is a vacuum. i am living in a vacuum. i have been condemned to sensory depravation, the loss of your physical presence.

the kids were both here for the July 4^th holiday – all weekend i had them both. it was so wonderful and yet all three of us missed you. we talked about you and looked at pictures. we tried to work on my scrapbook album thing but there were so many other things we wanted to do together and a very narrow window of time. i wish i could get my scrapbook finished. c’est la vie for me.

our son told me that he sees how different i am. his living in Florida means he does not see me like his sister does so he will notice this. he was a bit shocked and more than a little worried. he told me i am quieter than before. he said i am quiet like i am when i have to be around their father. careful quiet. i had to tell him that i would never be the same.

i told him that the greatest man i will ever know died. i told him that he influenced me and did more for me than all the people i have ever known put together. and now he is dead. i explained that maybe i am taking longer because i have grieved alone, without benefit of a friend to come sit with me, and without the benefit of being in a familiar place. from the moment he died nothing has been my choice or my decision. he died in February and i really did not wake up until late in November. and i was here.

august is coming and i am already blind again with grief. your birthday, the one and a half year anniversary of your death all occur during that Camp Widow thing i am going to. our wedding anniversary will happen the day after i get back. all this will hit when i am surrounded by people who are vested in so many other people and things. and the kids are right. i do not know how to speak for myself. i will be in the middle of a crowd and i will not tell them i am being crushed inside by this sorrow.

i am afraid to go. i know if you were here listening to me tell you this in person, you would come sit down and pull me in your lap. i miss that part of our relationship. we always had these wonderful, very tactile conversations. i always felt comforted, always felt valuable. now, our daughter hugs me. our son hugs me. it is not the same. i miss your eyes looking at me when i talked. i miss using so many words out loud. i have tried to talk to others but i can hear the clock ticking on the time i think they want to hear my voice. i think i am my own worst enemy.

i have aged so much. i have gained some weight from not being able to walk like we used to. to go from climbing on the rocks, from walking six to eight miles a day to walking the dogs within sight of my apartment door so i can run with them back inside when loose dogs attack is depressing. i miss you so much because you did not seem afraid of anything. you were not even afraid of the dark.

i was born a mouse. i learned to be a shadow during my childhood so i could try to go unnoticed as much as possible. i married and became the head Musketeer. i adapted myself to stealth and subterfuge so i could protect the kids. then i was allowed a moment of grace. i was allowed to be your wife, a real person, loved and valued. i got to taste a life lived in the light until that light was extinguished. now i want to live somewhere else because i am someone else. i would not mind being separate physically because i feel separate mentally.

you died. i hate euphemisms. you are not lost to me. you did not pass on. you died and i worked on you and tried to save you and i failed. i FAILED. i failed you. i could not bring you back. i sat beside you after you died and the world fell away.

and so i am different now. i am quieter. i look at myself and i see an old woman who does not belong anywhere because the only place she belonged was with you.

except maybe ……

i want to go home to the ocean. i am so tired of all this concrete. i get despondent seeing only a small swath of sky that peeks through two buildings. the only water nearby stinks because it is littered with trash from people who do not give a damn.

i want a small house with a small yard. i am not asking for luxury. well, i am because a little place by the ocean is a luxury. sorry. i would carve shutters for my house. i would die-cut out lobsters and starfish. each shutter would have a different design. i would fence the yard and call it Scotland Yard. the puppies would have room to play and i could have a garden again.

i would paint, and sew, take photographs, collect driftwood and shells and things for my sculptures. i would carve wood and build stained glass windows. and i would do what i am doing now. i would fantasize about you. i would draw on memories and go back for a while to living in the past when the present without you is too painful. and if anyone tells me that i am grieving all wrong, i can honestly say, as i do now, where were you when you knew i needed you? what do you care what happens to me?

then i would have a door that i could close. i would turn away from them and look out my windows at the eternity of the ocean. and i would dream of us.

i always dream of us.

old photos

my dearest Dragon, my lovely soul,

it's another Sunday. in one week and 14 hours, you will have been gone from me for 15 months. and i feel it. in my mind, on my skin, in my lungs, and where my heart used to be.

i still cry. often. i do not know if that's okay or normal, or if i am stagnating here at the realization that i am living without you. i would look at you, and at time, my love, i would never think it possible. i took so many pictures of you. from behind you all sneaky and making you pose for me. you never got used to my taking pictures. you never thought i would run out.

but 14 months and 3 weeks ago i stopped being allowed to take your picture. and no, i do not have enough. what happens when i run out of pictures of you to fiddle with and post?

you are cute. you are handsome. funny. adventurous. daring. charming. dangerous. trustworthy. mine. and i am yours.

i sulk sometimes. i know it is wrong. but when i think of the home we were planning on buying, on all our dreams that ceased to be the moment you died, it cuts me in half. our lovely old fort at the end of the Neck - we are not there. i miss us. i miss the ocean. i miss our walks. our island. the gulls. taking your picture. i miss you.
i miss your laugh. where do i go from here now that you have had to go so far ahead of me. you are out of sight but not out of mind. Lord, help me i think of you and wish things had been different. i wish you were here with me. not even in our dream house, just here with me. i am so lonely. it is often a physical pain and my only recourse is to write, or to close my eyes and fantasize of you, or go find the moon.

your serious face. i zoomed from the other room. you were reading contracts and being all working and focused and thinking. i love you mustache and beard. i miss touching them. i miss your eyes, the intensity and the joy. you have such powerful emotions. you were so articulate but your eyes, even more so.

i talk to you even though i will never hear your voice again. i tell you everything, still. this happened. i felt like that about whatever. all the little things that make up a day i still share with you. like today. that woman with the two chihuahuas turned them out again - no leashes. they snarled and circled us. pinned us against a tree. and i had our dogs' leash wrapped awkwardly around my hand. it was tight against my knuckles and when Carmen and Scootie tried to protect me and each other, it crushed my knuckles. hurt really bad. not big deal. iced it and then went back to sewing, but it would not have happened if you were here. you would have reached over and picked her dogs up by the scruff of their necks and probably done something outrageous like head for the trash can. you would never hurt the dogs, but you would have made your point. or you would have our dogs tight in your own solid hand, strong, safe. you would not have gotten pinned against a tree.

just stupid stuff like that that upsets me now that i am alone - now that you aren't here anymore. nothing is horribly wrong but nothing is right, not without you.

i miss our adventures. i miss our walks. it is 2:233 PM here on the east coast. Mass would be long over. we would returned home to have had our usual languid morning together. then lunch and we'd pack up for the afternoon. we'd be on the rocks. the beach. collecting all the miracles that can be found at the ocean's edge. i miss the roar. i miss the gulls. i miss the salty smell. i miss the wind. i miss the utter freedom that comes from being with you.

safe yet wildly exciting. every day was grand. every day was filled with love. even the bad times had the grace of your love and care for me. in all our years together we had two fights. two. and being the man and therefore being wrong, you admitted you were wrong. i am trying for humor but i failed in making myself smile. because i miss you so much.

i miss our life. i miss your love. i miss your being here with me so i could talk to you, tease you, and touch you.

i am running out of pictures that show you in all your worthiness to be put online. the others are either missed shots (that i am keeping regardless) or shots where you have made a funny face and those are for me alone. silly man. playful. fun.

it is hurting so bad to think that these can almost be called "old photos."

you are now free from this life we shared. i wish i could have gone with you. i wish you could have stayed longer. but i do imagine you free and wild, your spirit so joyously happy. i know how adventurous you are. you must be having a glorious time.

i am lonely for you. i need .......... whatever. it does not matter. i cannot have what i want and there is no one to call to come over to talk to me. so i crawl away and get back to work.

two souls separated. one is free. one is earthbound. i pray you remember me. i pray that one day we are together again. off on another adventure.

and i will not need pictures anymore because nothing will separate us ever again.

Bunny and her moon

Bunny has been keeping track of the moon. it's waxing again. she is an avid stalker. when her earth turns to a position that puts the moon out of sight from her balcony, she silently slides outside to continue her vigil.
she stares at the moon, taking photos until she is comfortable that she has a good selection from which to glean the right one. the one that speaks to her. that one moment when the moon and Bunny, and her tortured camera, were one. sympatico.

Bunny loves the moon. it's her tether to the next life. she hopes that when she dies, she will fly through the sky to the moon. she wants to stop and rest there. see, Bunny is tired.
first to die was her mother. then her grandmother. her beloved grandfather. her son, her "little love." her father. then her stepmother. an assortment of feelings of grief registered through her mind and her heart. her soul was damaged by the deaths of her grandparents and her son. but then came the death of her Dragon. and her soul was ripped down the middle. it was akin to someone sharpening a knife and wanting to show off it's razor-like abilities. this someone takes a piece of paper and slices it in two with the knife. Dragon's death was like that for Bunny.

her heart cried out but nobody heard. it splintered into a million pieces and slipped out through the two pieces of Bunny's soul. she gave up her heart and soul on that night to her Dragon so that he would have those pieces of her to keep until they could be together again.

so now she wants the moon. she wants a vacation. she doesn't want anything or anyone to hurt her anymore. she wants a break. so when she dies, Bunny is politely asking God to let her Dragon come get her and take her to the moon. she and he will sit there and stare back at the earth, the big blue marble. and though she will think it's very, very pretty with all it's oceans of blue and it's swirling, twirling clouds of white, Bunny will never want to go back. because nothing can compare to being on the moon with her Dragon, resting for a spell, until she isn't so tired anymore. then she'll let her Dragon take her to the gates of Heaven so she can sink to her knees for permission to enter.

Bunny isn't a complete doormat. she believes she has an inside connection. her Dragon. her husband. her love. the one who has her heart and soul in his safe keeping.

upside down life

my lovely, wonderful husband died. my handsome Marine. my Dragon. he died and left me here alone. my life has been turned upside down and i am struggling to make sense of what i'm supposed to do now.

he called me his Beach Bunny because it's where i always ended up. for me, there is peace at the ocean's edge. shells, driftwood, sand dollars, smooth stones, ropes and line that were washed overboard and found their way to our cove. we'd walk the beach in the pre-dawn glow, during the brightest days or the wildest storms, and at night to watch the moon rise over the shimmery, watery horizon. we'd dance in the sand. we dreamed about what the rest of our lives together would be like. the rest of our lives together ended 9 February 2009.

now Bunny is upside down and the world is all wrong. i'm trying to find a way to save myself with creativity. my sewing for others. my sewing for myself. my writing. and now i found a new way to express my grief in a creative way that i hope keeps me from crying myself into a headache. solitary creativity as grief therapy.

i found a soft bunny and my daughter talked me into buying it today. i transferred over from my meager savings to get her. i'll get her a little swimmy suit when they get them in during the month of April. think about it. the photo shoot ideas are limitless.

i'm trying to save myself while i watch February come at me. the 9th will come. then Valentine's Day will roll right over me.

after that i'll be looking at every day from then on, however long "then on" lasts. and i'm scared. i am so scared without him. i wish.......

he promised me he wasn't ever going to leave me. he told me i was his whole world and then he said, "i love you so very much. i'll never leave you, my love. i'll put wheels on my walker and chase you around when we're old."

i know he didn't want to go and i'm not mad at him or at God. i am just so very sad that this is what has happened to me, to us, to the perfect us that lived in our own private world, in each other's arms, beside the beautifully harsh North Atlantic, down on the beach, in a secluded cove that held all the magic we could ever want.

close your eyes and imagine it. a Dragon and his Beach Bunny, dancing in each other's arms under the full moon. a haunting little song would drift up to you on the wind in a voice that was deep and filled with love.

"i'll give you a daisy a day, dear. i'll give you a daisy a day........

soft laughter. then you'd see the slowing down of their two bodies until only their feet shifted in the sand. the two shapes would appear almost as one as they turned dreamily under that soft silver light. the teasing would fade and be replaced with the feeling of the deep, spiritual bond between the two.

Dragon and Bunny in the world but not of it. in a world all their own. believing that they would grow old together. so grateful to have found each other. so in love that they never wanted to let each other go. holding hands even in the grocery store.

upside down is not fun. all the foam is rushing to Bunny's head. it makes her very tired.

the Dragon speaks

"I read her words in my mind. I hear her thoughts in my heart. Every tear she sheds I am there for and I wish I could tell her that I am. She doesn’t know where I am or how I am because it isn’t her time to know. I am her Dragon and I was called to go ahead. I died and she lived. And even though I know peace here, relief from all the physical pain my body suffered because of my years in service to my country, I would take all the pain back to be with her again.

But all I can do is watch her and wait.

Apart. Such a small word for the impact it has on those who mourn. I never lost my wife and yet I mourn. She lives. It was I who left her; who went through the agony of dying. Her voice came through to me. I could hear her panic. My heart tore in two but there was nothing I could do. I was being taken from this life for reasons I understand now but certainly did not then. And I know she does not understand. But one day she will. And I will be waiting for her.

All I can do is watch over her and wait with her.

I also heard her voice after I died. I could hear it in my thoughts. Her voice was hollow, soft, in shock. She told me she’d never love anyone else. She said she’d stay my wife. She still wears the rings I gave her. She’ll never take them off. I know her. She makes up her mind and folks, that’s it. She’s quiet but a more determined, bull-headed person you’ll be hard to find. I love her for it though. I hear her talking to the puppies. I hear her on the phone or when someone drops by. Her voice is still hollow. It doesn’t have the life in it that I know is there.

And all I can do is just sit with her and look at her.

I know, of the two of us, it was best that I died first. I told her once that it had to be me because I was always point man. And besides, I could not be left alone back there. I could not do it without her. She was the one who gave me life again, love. She hero-worships me and I don’t know why but I was always so grateful for it. I was always so grateful for her. I told her I was a heathen but truth is I did start talking to God after I met her. I thanked Him for her. She heard me, I think. She was so sick one time and I was terrified. I told God to give her back to me. I told Him I couldn’t live without her. I don’t have that kind of strength. She’d smiled at me and called me “silly.” She told me I was the strongest man in the world. I am a Marine and I know I can do anything. I also know that I could not live without her. And now I have to watch her live without me.

And all I can do is watch her suffer.

She still doesn’t really know how deep my love for her is. She is everything to me, my breath, my life, my heart, my soul, and my conscious. I told her all the time. I wrote her notes and said all of that and more. She heard my stories of what I did. She knew what I was capable of and yet, all I saw in her eyes was a love so deep that I jumped. I jumped off that cliff and fell into her arms. And I never left. Even though I have died, I have never left her arms. I just wish she could feel my arms around her.

But all I can do is stay with her and not talk to her like I used to.

We did talk though, when I was alive. She used to be afraid to say what was on her mind. But I got it out of her. I’m the Dragon. One of my many specialties was communications. I got people to talk. And I got her to open up to me. I used trust and love and tenderness. She was starved for it. I don’t think she’d ever really been touched in a kind way or hugged, even as a child. So I made up for it. I touched her all the time. I got her to smile, to get used to laughing. I got her used to being held. God, I loved it, seeing her relax. I’d been seeing her for four months before she relaxed enough to let her head lie on my shoulder and fall asleep while we watched a movie at her house. Her daughter was sitting in a chair watching with us and she saw her mother sleeping. Her remark would have brought me to my knees if I’d been standing.

“Mom must trust you. She’s fallen asleep. She never fell asleep first when dad was here.”

I am not the type of man to get tears in my eyes but to feel the tenseness gone from her body, to feel her steady even breathing, and know that she trusted me inside her house with herself and her children, to fall asleep like that, I will never forget that moment.

Yet now all I can do is wait for her to get through with this pain she’s feeling so she can remember it with joy and not this intense sorrow.

We love each other. Oh, God, the bond we have. It was immediate for me. I had to work on her a bit. But when she fell in love with me, she was all in. Hero-worship. It was the most amazing feeling to be looked at by her. I could see how shy she was with me, always was. She thought I was handsome. I thought she was crazy. She would sneak pictures of me with that camera of hers. I never could figure it out but I didn’t try too hard. Seeing the joy in her face, the adoration she feels for me light her eyes was enough for me to put up with all the pictures. And now that I’m dead, she stares at them. She talks to me looking at them while I'm standing right behind her. They are all over that little apartment she’s living in. God help me, I wish we were there together. And we are, in a way. I can’t leave her all alone. I have to keep watch. Nothing can keep me away from her….

as you can see. Here I am. Watching over her.

She cries in her sleep. It breaks my heart. She finally gets to sleep and then I see tears. I’ve heard her call my name and I reach for her but she doesn’t feel my touch.

All I can do is watch over her.

I told her all the time how beautiful I think she was but she had a hard time accepting it. She had been so beaten down for decades. Her self-esteem is so low, and now that I’m not exactly there to tell her these things, she doubts herself. I did not get the chance to finish healing her. That is my greatest regret.

So I watch over her. I watch her write. I watch her sew. I watch her cry. I don’t get to see her laugh much, or smile.

One day, I don’t know when, the vicious sharpness of this pain will subside. She’ll find that place between living and existing that people who mourn forever find. It’s a place of sweet memories, a half dream. She’ll be of your world, living and enjoying life again, but there will always be a part of her no one can reach. That’s the part that will always be with me. I know it. She knows it, too. Deep down under the ache she knows she’ll get there. We have this bond, you see.

Then she’ll know I’m watching over her. She’ll sense me close. She’ll know that even death could not keep me from growing old with her.

Excuse me now. She’s set her sewing aside. She’s going to try to sleep some. I need to be there with her, you understand, in case she cries in her sleep."

i've gone through a bunch of letters, both hand-written and email, just to read his words to me again. this is what i imagine he'd be doing and saying. i knew him really well. no, that's wrong. i know him really well. he hasn't changed inside where it counts. i can predict what he'd say and do in pretty much any situation. see, we have this bond.

"how could it be so?"

"it came without ribbons! it came without tags!

it came without packages, boxes, or bags!" ~ the Grinch

it came here at midnight; like a thief in the night.

it came without Dragon and it doesn't feel right.

it's here and he's not. he didn't come back.

there was no Christmas miracle in Santa's pack.

so i sit and i think. i sit all alone.

i think of my Dragon and wish we were back home.

my Dragon died of a sudden, catastrophic heart attack on the night of February 8th. they called it just after midnight. if i can't sleep, if i'm still up, the time of midnight until after 1 am is very hard for me. still.

i will never forget his face from that night. i will never forget my efforts to save him that failed. i will never forget. i was with him when he died. i will be with him forever. he is my joy. he is my love. he is my life. he is gone and i cannot find joy, love, or any kind of life without him. i subsist on memories and a half life where i make things for others, get the vibe of their solace in what i make.

it sounds sad. i know it sounds like i'm not doing well. i'm doing the best i can. it's Christmas 2009. i am alone. i don't feel him. i haven't since he died. i've been told by so many others, read about it, that they have felt the presence of their deceased loved ones. i don't know if i should be jealous or relieved that i haven't. i tell myself that he didn't hesitate to go straight to Heaven. he deserves the rest it offers. he deserves all the joy and peace that is promised.

i just miss him. he was too much of everything. my warmth. my laughter. my safety. he was my mirror. i know i will laugh again. i'll just never be in love again. i'll never be loved again.

"stay by my side as my light grows dim

as my blood slows down

and my nerves shatter with stabbing pain

as my heart grows weak

and the wheels of my being turn slowly.

stay by my side as my fragile body is racked by pain

which verges on truth

and manic time

continues scattering dust

and furious life bursts out in scattering flames.

stay by my side as i fade

so you can point to the end of my struggle

and the twilight of eternal days

at the low dark edge of life." ~ The Devil's Backbone

Christmas Eve ~ candles and my moon

a candle for Boo's Cliff. a candle for my Dragon.

and the fading first quarter moon on this dark Christmas Eve.
the vigil that my sleepless eyes tell me is coming has been acknowledged and accepted. i will sew. it's all i know to do here by myself.

she's coming.....

December 2nd is another full moon and on the 9th, it will be another month. 10 months. i'm sick and it's supposed to rain on the full moon. i'll have to get the photo the day before, catch it before the rain drowns my chance to commune with the loneliest woman i know. she lives "next door" and can only shine with borrowed light. like me. i only shined standing beside my Dragon.

i've read that women and the moon are linked all through history. now i am intrinsically linked to her because she watched me become the shattered woman that i am. she was full the night the Dragon's soul flew past her to wherever Dragon's go.

i wonder if the peace and freedom of getting to leave his battered body prevented him from looking back at us, at me?

i always look up. always. whether day or night. up is where i believe he is. and my moon. my equally lonely friend. she had visitors once, but they never returned. they used her, then left her alone. busy, don't you know.

i wonder if my Dragon is busy. i wonder if he's thinking of me. i wonder things i'm not supposed to wonder if i'm to journey ahead on this path i've been set upon. all i know is all i feel. and i feel misery. i feel sick. i feel fear. and i feel bereft of my Dragon.

maybe when i get well, i'll come out of this pit of despair. in the meantime, i can be found gazing at my moon. the fullness of her beauty and abilities is coming back 'round again, and she and i have shared memories to discuss.

Dragon

i did take a few pictures of yesterday, that 3rd Thursday in November, but the one person i wanted there couldn't come.

i woke up sick this morning. it's all in my chest. feels like iron weights are sitting on my sternum. i faked feeling better than i do so my son wouldn't be upset that he had to drive back to his home to be back at work tomorrow. fibbed to my daughter.

the tide has moved in silently and lifted my significant little boat and carried it out into the darkness. the heaven's are so black making the water even darker. what's darker than black? my soul. but if i lay back and look up at the sky, i can see millions of pinpricks of silver light. i'm also watching the moon get fuller so i guess the black night is not total.

i miss him so much. i'm thankful. i'm grateful. i'm careful. i'm dancing on the head of a pin. i know it defies God but i'd really like to talk to him one more time. how many have said that to their own darkness? they miss their loved ones. well, me, too.

but i have to try. if i listen very carefully, i can hear the soft rustle of dragon wings. i think it's him. i'm pretty sure it is. i think he's reconnoitering. i hope he doesn't see how bad i look. i hope he doesn't know how much i cry. i hope he doesn't sense the fear that probably emanates from me in waves. but it's a kind of comfort to believe/pretend that he's out there in the dark skies where he feels so at home. but then again, maybe he's waiting for me. maybe he does know how bad it is and from where his new perspective, he knows how good it will be when we're together again.

i'm going to go lay down now. shhhhhhh. i hear wings.

be the turkey

i am a turkey, the one from the slang dictionary. my mother had relentlessy told me i would never amount to anything and despite my best attempts at life, i have become exactly what she always thought of me as. i am a turkey.

it haunts me more now that my Dragon has died. he is not here to stroke my feathers and tell me how pretty i am.

my mother always thought i was too bookish and artistic. she despised that about me and while i withstood heaps of lectures on how to be the woman she wanted me to be, i quoted Shakespeare in my head. "to thine own self be true."

and i have been. but persevering through her predictions of my future failures doesn't make me less a turkey. it just makes me a turkey with convictions who failed anyway.

because of my ex, i learned how to endure without love or much hope. but my convictions kept me from making stupid mistakes. i learned how to take it on the chin. is that a metaphor? only the turkey knows. but i did arrive at the breaking point. i couldn't take it anymore and i left him. he took everything.

in flies my Dragon. and because of him the turkey glowed with the inner light she always had.

okay, wait a minute. first, way back when, i was in a boat on the water in a fog. i was listening to the wrong bell and rowing away from safety. then just recently i was the "insignificant little boat." and now i'm a turkey? damn straight. i can lay claim to anything that fits who i am. today, i am the turkey so i will be the turkey. tomorrow, who knows. there are a lot of metaphors out there and, well, it's my mind. it's all in my mind.

and that's where the trouble always starts. just when everything is going along, someone starts to think.

and wish.

and become wistful for things they weren't meant to have.

i always wanted a little house to live in for 60 years. the ex moved us around within one little town as he tried to improve "his" property ownership. nothing during that marriage was mine. my Dragon and i supported my two children during college when the ex did not and we rented a house by the ocean. a perfectly old and shabby little house where i would have lived for 60 years. and now i am trying to accept this tiny apartment as my home.

"forever? but what about the lighthouse? what about our dream? what about even a small place by the ocean? are we just giving up on that?" that's the voice in my head.

not all dreams come true.

i always wanted friends and family. i gave up, unnoticed i woefully add, on the widow's group. i have my wonderful daughter and son. i am blessed. my brother refuses to speak to me. friends are hard to come by. why? maybe because i am a turkey and they see in me what my mother did so long ago. "you're kidding us, right?" (my mind always speaks in third person to include all my various personalities.) "our life sucks! it blows! we need people to talk to us, to come get us and take us to the mall or to a movie! sure the kids love us and that's wonderful but there has to be someone else out there. c'mon! dial it up! get mad!" what good would it do. "crap. we are such a turkey. but yeah, right now, there is nothing we can do. but if they can't see how cool we are then....." hush.

i always wanted to take little trips, to see places. i got to "see" them through my Dragon when he talked about all the countries he'd been in. i bought a map of the world and brought it to him once. i had a sharpie and asked him to tell me what countries he hadn't been in. if i remember correctly there were about eleven.

i always wanted to deny my turkey heritage. "now that's just sad. so what if we're a turkey? turkeys are smart and cool. hey, Ben Franklin wanted the turkey for the national bird. that should tell you something right there." Ben Franklin was also a womanizer and wrote an absurd little book called 'Fart Proudly.' "oh. well, so the man had a sense of humor and a zest for life. so does our Dragon, but without the cheating part. you know how much he loves turkey." stop it.

i'm losing my mind. "i'm right here." really losing my marbles. "they're in that little bag over there on the bookshelf we bought for $3 at Goodwill." see?

i've been putting in 12 - 15 hour days working on what i now call "quiltimus maximus." but i am on the last little bit of sewing on that 8'+ x 9'+ monstrosity. i have called and the woman is coming for it on Monday. "after she leaves we're getting drunk, even if it's morning."

and then it's full swing on Suddenwidow's quilts. but right now, i'm tired and the turkey in me is wistful for what can never be. i'll never have a little home. i'll never again live by the ocean. i'll most likely be pretty much alone. if i find a friend who likes turkeys, it will be a miracle. i am wistful to travel like i read about people getting to do. i wish there were friends and neighbors who called to check on me off and on during the week like i know other people have happen for them.

"we're mad. admit it. well, we're upset anyway. that widow from the group stopped by last night and we thought she was coming to see us but she just needed to use our restroom before she kept driving home. i mean, how rude is that? out with the other widows and we weren't invited. she passes our apartment and needs to pee? really? why didn't we say something crude?" because the first thing out of her mouth was that she was having a bad day missing her husband. "well, we were having a bad day, too. we miss our Dragon so much that we spontaneously burst into tears and scream into our pillow. why isn't our grief as important to them as theirs is to us? and we didn't get to go out and hang with everyone. and her saying we hadn't been invited because it would have been inconvenient to come get us? seriously? but our toilet is close enough to pee in?" water under the bridge. "obviously not because we're talking to ourselves again. turkey."

well, if you are the turkey, might as well be the turkey.

i miss my Dragon more than i have the words or ability to express. i'll never stop loving him or mourning him.

"bye for now. we got our feelings hurt last night. sort of an 'unnailed, uncoffined, unknown' view of our future. so it's crying time again for turkeys."

quitting the widow's group or the broken little boat that got away.

Once there was there was a little boat. She was an insignificant addition to the harbor of life but she had always thought there was a reason for her to have been built. One of those reasons had been to protect her oars. She had two of them, a beautiful daughter whose personality was like the sun breaking through a cloudy day. The other was a quietly handsome son who was introspective and reticent. His inner light shone more like a full moon. The little boat loved her little oars very, very much and she did all that she could to give them a safe life.

The little boat had gotten entangled with a bigger boat and she had been very much afraid. She had tried and tried to cut the lines but the skipper of the bigger boat had always kept a close eye on her. She and her little oars had been dragged hard through the bigger boat’s wake until she almost drowned. But she had been a smart little boat. She had come to learn human nature so she kept her little oars drawn down inside close to her heart, and she had waited. She waited until the skipper of the bigger boats had been lulled into complacency by her submissiveness.

It culminated one dark night with a fateful decision. Her little oars were ready to move on to boats of their own picking. She knew she wouldn’t be able to be left alone with the bigger boat. Once her little oars were on their way, there would be nothing for the little boat to fight for, except herself, and she’d lost most of herself by throwing bits and pieces into the motor blades of the bigger boat to distract him from her oars.

She reached up and cut the lines. Quietly, fearfully, and with much screaming from the bigger boat, the little boat drifted away. She drew her lines in and coiled them tightly in her bottom. She watched the currents and tides and kept herself floating between the bigger boat when he went after her little oars. She plied the waters that way never believing anyone would want her or help her, or even notice that a little boat was fighting for her very survival.

Then one day a tugboat noticed. He wasn’t as large or as grand as the bigger boat that tormented her so, but he was strong. Tugboats can pull many times their weight and have such raw power that other boats fear a run in with one. The tugboat cautiously approached the little boat and asked her if he could help her; just help a little. On the edge of exhaustion, the little boat loosened her lines enough for the mighty tugboat to pull her out of harm’s way. Then gently he gave her back her line.

In this way the little boat learned to trust the tugboat and the tugboat fell in love with the little boat. He stayed alongside her, keeping himself between her and the big boat, letting his powerful engine roar with rage if the big boat tried to interfere with the little boat’s life. He protected her and her little oars, often pulling her to go see them in their new boats, to sit and listen to their stories of where they were going and the entire world they were seeing.

The tugboat liked seeing the little boat smile. He knew it had been a long time since she had been able to feel safe. He wanted to give her the simple life for her that she had always dreamed of and he wanted to be a part of her life forever.

In turn the little boat fell deeply in love with the tugboat. She loved his strong hull and his powerful voice that was never loud towards her. She loved looking up into his wheelhouse windows and seeing his beautiful soul. She got him to tell her stories of his life and, just as he’d helped her, she helped him breathe slowly and deeply. She helped him understand that though he’d had some ugly jobs in the past, he was a hero to those he’d saved from the awful storms of life.

One night, as a full moon cast it’s silvery light over the little boat as she snuggled close to the hull of her handsome tugboat, she heard his engine cough. He coughed again, and again. Try as she might the little boat couldn’t get the tugboat to stop making the awful sounds. She bumped his side over and over but his engine was failing. Sounding a mayday over and over, and over and over until she was hoarse, the little boat kept trying to revive her strong handsome tugboat, to no avail.

When the Coast Guard got there, all they could do was tow him in. He was gone from her. His engine could not be rebuilt. There was too much damage. He’d worked so hard all his life doing bad, dirty jobs that had taken their toll on him. And now the little boat was adrift on a sea of inconsolable sorrow.

She called out to her daughter who was living on a boat in a different place. It was a landlocked place where so much seemed strange. The little boat allowed herself to be trailered there so she could at least be close to her daughter oar. She was so sad and lonely. She tried going to a group where other little boats had lost their mates but she wasn't important enough to warrant keeping up with. She felt like a failure.

The little boat tried and tried to get involved but, landlocked as she was, it was hard for her to get around. She tried talking but no one was listening. She tried being a part of things but even if she got there, no one really talked to her. The little boat never felt like she fit in. She wasn’t as young as some of the other boats. Her oars were grown up and out on their own so her life wasn’t comparable. But she also wasn’t as old as some of the boats in another group. No, the little boat didn’t fit in anywhere.

She made things for all the other boats that asked her to and she thought she was onto something. But as the weeks passed, the little boat felt even less and less important. As the boats picked up what she made for them, they turned their backs and never called her again. They had what they wanted. For them, there was no reason to ever really speak to the little boat again. They had used her services, paid her. Now they didn’t have any reason to speak to her. They were all so busy with their friends and their work and the activities that they were involved in.

Once the little boat was asked to come to a party but she felt uncomfortable. It was on a day that she was missing her tugboat very much and she was crying a lot. The boat that asked her became offended and never called her again. The boat said that it was her own fault for giving in to her grief over her tugboat. It made the little boat sadder that she wasn’t allowed to feel sad for so great a tug.

Other boats were casually cruel to the little boat. Most likely they didn’t realize it because for every little hurt they did to her, they blamed their grief for forgetting her, or being late, or for not speaking to her. It was confusing that their hurtful behavior was excusable while her fear at being in a new place filled with strangers added to her deep depression over witnessing her tugboat’s life being torn from her was not acceptable.

Once she wrote to the important boat that facilitated the group meetings. She called her three times and left messages begging her to call back. But the important boat didn’t bother. The little boat was saddened.

She watched the important boat pursue contact with the other boats, was privy to inside knowledge that the important boat actively reached out to the others, even met with them outside the group for private grief counseling, but could not find it in herself to reach out to the little boat. Was she wrong in her belief? The little boat was in no position to judge. She was too tired. She was too sad. It was hard for her to see the reality of anything anymore, except the reality that she was alone with no visitors except her little oars who worriedly came by as often as they could.

One other boat did call occasionally but she called for herself. She needed to talk and the little boat was a very good listener. Other than that, she was very, very alone.

So the little boat stopped going to the group meetings. She beached herself beside an ocean in her mind and she lay there. She let the rough grasses grow up around her until she was quite covered. If anyone happened by and spotted her, she smiled her small little smile but it never reached her eyes. Never.

She dreamed of her tug on two occasions, night and day. She lay there and waited for the full moon to rise up over the horizon of her pretend ocean. She’d watch it with a silence that was like watching a cloister take Communion. Her little hull gleamed dully white, like old bone, in the moonlight. Her heart ached for she had weathered badly being so exposed. She sometimes wondered what her wonderful, handsome tug would think about what had become of her.

Besides quitting the widow’s group, the little boat also quit going out unless it was absolutely necessary. When she left, she carried with her, hung on her bow, a precious glass pendant of blue as deep as the darkest night and capped with silver made to look like a moon and star. Inside it she carried a small bit of the ashes that her beautiful tugboat had become. She was never gone from her imaginary beach for long because to be gone would mean to be away from her dreams of him.

So she’d hurry back and nestle herself down into the pretend sand and let the grasses flow over her to hide her. She sometimes smiled to herself about that because really, no one was looking for her. She didn’t matter to anyone except to her little oars who knew she was forever changed and did all they could to help her find a small amount of peace. But the only one who could revive the little boat was gone. So she lay with her dreams of him, her sadness over his tragic death, and her aloneness that she resigned herself.

It seemed to her that her empty berth at the meetings went unnoticed because no one checked to see if she was okay. She had been born an insignificant little boat and only her oars and her magnificent tug had ever seen any value in her.

But in that thought there was some solace. Her oars were wonderful and were living honorable lives. And to have been loved by such a strong, handsome, and legendary tugboat was more than she had ever expected from this life she had been made for.

And then it hit her. Maybe to be there for him, to be the consort of that incredible tugboat, was what she’d been designed for. It was what she had gone through hell for, to be with him. It was her blessing to be the one there for him at his end, telling him over and over every day they were together how much she loved him and how proud she was of him. It was the love in her voice he heard as he died. It was her hull against his that he felt when all the feeling in this life stopped for him. She had been built to be with the tug whose life was mythic and who had, more than anyone, needed the love and devotion of an insignificant little boat.