I could write a beautiful, poignant 1,000-word version of this post that’d keep me from my kids for a couple hours. Alternatively, I could write a more succinct, less illuminating version that takes me only ten minutes. I’m opting for the latter.
My sister Rache and I are very similar in some ways. She’s an ASNAC nerd who took me to the Jorvik Viking Center on my one trip to England, so we definitely diverge in some ways, but … in many ones where it counts, we’re clearly cut from the same cloth. Read more…
Madeline (Octopus Lady) is my youngest biological sister. With seven years and two siblings between us, we weren’t close growing up, only really getting to know each other when she first visited me in law school 15 years (!) ago. I love her despite the can of dog food she once dropped on my head, and she loves me despite the times I locked her in the basement and told her Chucky was going to get her. Sisterhood is a joy … now that we’re older. 🙂
Is seeing a rainbow
Walking through the woods
Splashing in the ocean Read more…
with my sister
i told her
how i learned
our mom had cancer
right before i boarded
the train to
when i drive
one stretch of
talking to my mom
while looking out
at the ocean
so vast and
(wider than the ocean)
it felt to know
we would not
talking with madeline,
i reached that stretch
like my mom
and my godfather,
and my grandpa g
wrapped parts of
their love into me
and i feel them
(not the loss of their bodies)
in these moments:
the warmth of love
wrapped around me,
a cocoon of forever,
the duration of love
I haven’t been reading blogs recently, and I miss them. I miss you.
My quiet, though, is a necessary, self protective one. In this greater quiet, I have spent a lot of time thinking more about safety. I have discovered both that I haven’t been a safe place for myself and that I must work–hard–to be one now and for many tomorrows.
Of course, even the greatest quiet must include one’s closest friend and Silver Star (aka “Rache”), and we’ve had much to share. One text message exchange in particular lit my heart such that I wanted to memorialize it, to remember the exchange and to remind myself that love isn’t a matter of luck. I wrote Rache:
[Someone] told me earlier this week that I’m lucky to be so loved … but it wasn’t luck, for me or for you or our siblings. Having known great hurt, we are also uniquely equipped to identify those who could or would never hurt us. We have sought those people in our lives and left aside the others. It is not luck that we are loved. It is that we are lovable … that we listen, and we hear, and we love so greatly. Read more…
If we were having coffee, I’d ask you why you were out and about so late. I’d explain that I’ve only slipped out briefly while my younger sister, Rache (aka “Silver Star“), sleeps on my couch. She’ll be headed back home almost as soon as she arrived, but the quickness of her trip doesn’t change the warmth left in its wake. Home feels even more like home when filled by traces of certain loved ones’ presence, I’d say with the hint of a smile, already looking forward to hearing my sister’s snores for a few more hours.
I’d tell you how we didn’t do much, and about how very perfect was our laziness. I’d say we slept only in alternating fits on Friday nights, talking through most of Unfriended and Cinderella, and laugh when saying I made it through only ten minutes of Avengers: Age of Ultron before taking a late-night nap. Me, sleep through a superhero movie and stay awake for Cinderella?! I wouldn’t have believed it myself, had I not been there, done that! Read more…
At 2:35 p.m. on March 4, 2011, I soared over the ocean in a Ferris wheel.
I seldom remember what I was doing any given day, let alone any hour or minute, but this was a moment I needed to spend laughing.
My mom had died one year ago that very minute, and I wanted to make sure I spent that minute’s entirety remembering not how my mom died, but how she lived. We’d laughed together on that Ferris wheel on her one vacation. That very same trip, she’d shouted for me and Jay Leno to get a “chin shot, chin shot!” on account of our mutually sizable chins. Read more…
“How do we get the medicine on her?” Rache asked after we received it.
Our mom didn’t want medicine as she died. She’d cut herself in younger days; the physical pain felt more real, more justifiable, than her emotional pain. In her final days, I think it felt like a reminder she was still alive, still strong enough to endure any pain short of death.
None of us doubted her strength. We’d witnessed it firsthand for decades. Mom’s pain was evident, and excruciating, and we chose to ease it.
“I’ll ask if she wants to watch me nurse D,” I said. “She loves that. With Mom focused on that, you can give her a back rub and slip on the patch.” Read more…