Today's Poem

This is the poem I woke to find in my in box this morning. That is all.

Graves We Filled Before the Fire
by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Some lose children in lonelier ways:
tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers

that soak the bedclothes five nights running.
Our two boys went out to skate, broke

through the ice like battleships, came back
to us in canvas bags: curled

fossils held fast in ancient stone,
four hands reaching. Then two

sad beds wide enough for planting
wheat or summer-squash but filled

with boys, a barren crop. Our lives
stripped clean as oxen bones.

An Open Letter to My Friend, Caroline

Dearest Caroline,

I just read (again!) your essay in A Few Thousand Words About Love and realized I had probably never told you how much it means to me. The first time I read it was just a few months after Britt was killed. I was visiting Katharine in Connecticut and she had a copy of the book on the table by the bed in her studio/guest cottage where I was sleeping. Just a few paragraphs in, I was crying so hard I could barely see and I'm afraid that section of her book is forever wavy from my tears. In the years since then, I've read it often and, the more time passes, the more I am struck by the truth of what you said: ..."as the capacity for pain grows, so does the capacity for joy. And when you know that sadness can visit at any time, your appreciation for happiness is overpowering."

Even in those very dark early days of my grief, you helped me decide not to be one of those people who allowed my grief to steal my life. I thought of you and your widows' group experience every time I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting...and granted myself permission to flee those rooms when the relentless "you will never be happy again" drum beat so loudly I couldn't hear myself think because you had done it, too.

These days I find joy in small and simple things...seeds that sprout in my garden, the exuberance of my dog, David's smile when I come home from work each day...things I know would also have given joy to Britt and though the grief is a tangible presence in each day so is her love and the love of my friends. I am so fortunate to count you among them.

much love to you,


d

P.S. - Those of you who don't know this book definitely should.

The House of Many Colors (or, How Even a Good Memory Can Hurt)

Years ago, we moved to the suburbs. Britt was starting middle school (6th grade) at a time when Savannah/Chatham County's middle schools were really struggling with security issues (drugs, random acts of violence, frequent lock-downs involving police squads and locker-sniffing dogs); in short, not the sort of environment we wanted for our girl. At the urging of her elementary school teachers, we sold our cool downtown town-home and hightailed it to the next county. For me, the move was disastrous. I found myself the only working mom on a cookie cutter cul-de-sac, with a one-way, hour long commute, and a brand new prescription for Celexa.

I starting painting the new house (decorated in seventeen shades of pink by the previous owners) and all the walls slowly turned to taupe. After the third room, Britt became a little alarmed. "Are all the rooms going to be this color?" she asked skeptically. "Mostly" I said. I pulled out all the designer talked I learned in my years at the design firm. Taupe is an excellent neutral. Taupe is a perfect backdrop. Taupe is timeless. Taupe, truly, was how I felt on the inside and I wanted to surround myself with its numbing sameness, one room at a time. "Ick" was her reply. And then, she looked me in the eye and "One day, I am going to have my own house and every room is going to be a different color, bright and flashy, and it will drive you crazy, mama." And then she flashed me a wicked grin and I laughed and allowed as she was probably right but that I would visit anyway and try to bite my tongue. But, that was a long way off and I did let her pick a vibrant blue for her room and we moved on.

Fast forward eleven years to this funky little farm house on the edge of town. I spent the weekend of August 8th and 9th painting the kitchen a bright apple green. And, as I wandered from room to room gathering supplies and taking short breaks, I slowly realized that - unconsciously - we have created the house of Britt's long-ago dreams. I was standing on the counter (not - regardless of what some people might say - an unreasonable place to be while a painting a kitchen) lost in the memory of that conversation and thinking how much she would really love the yellow living room, the red dining room, the new apple-y kitchen...and walked right off the counter into mid-air. Gravity being a law and not a suggestion, the moments that followed were not pretty. Urgent care visit, x-rays, sling....waiting for an MRI and hoping that I wont need surgery to repair a torn tendon or muscle in order to regain the use of my arm...yada, yada. I hope they get it sorted out and fixed soon, because the guest room is next on the painting list. I'm thinking a reddish orange...Britt would like that.

Finally, because no post is complete without pictures, here are a few shots of The House of Many Colors.

The living room:


The dining room:


And a couple of views of the kitchen (which still needs new curtains, but is otherwise finished, thanks to Dave who valiantly jumped in at the end and tied up all my loose ends):

Noise In My Head

Some days, there is a lot of noise in my head. It's there when I wake up - a low buzzing chatter of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' and 'whys.' The noise can be deafening and also crippling. I've found there are only two ways to deal with it: constant motion or surrender. To surrender to the noise is to spend the whole day in my pajamas, curled up and alternately crying and sleeping. I do this occasionally and think it helps keep me sane. Today was not about surrender, but motion, and I am tired.

I slept for twelve hours last night and woke with that buzzing in my head. I made coffee and went out to inspect the garden. Not nearly enough work to do there these days...the garden has reached the 'watch and wait' stage. So, instead, I starting moving. I grabbed my mom and we headed downtown. The original plan was bagels and the library. I missed the turn to the bagel place about the same I remembered the new Farmers' Market in The Big Park downtown. So we revised our plan (okay, I revised and Mom - who's very good at going along for the ride - said okay) and headed there instead. The market was small but had a great assortment of vegetables and plants, mostly organic, and the marvelous egg-farmers I met at the GreenFest a few weeks ago were there. I bought a few tomatoes, a bibb lettuce plant to add to the garden and some patty-pan squash which I've heard of but never seen before and they are fun-looking, like flying saucers:



Then we hit the coffee shop at the edge of the park. The Sentient Bean may be the best-named coffee shop ever, particularly since it is also a totally organic vegetarian cafe. Also it's local and they display art from the local art school and have a diverse clientele and it's just all around a better experience than going to Starbucks. Mind, I love Starbucks, but Starbucks is the Disneyland of coffeehouses - too smooth around the edges and I wish I lived closer to the Sentient Bean because I would hang out there on the funky purple sofas and watch people and write more.

After coffee, we scooted back up the street to the library. I found several books about kitchen gardens (always good to read up AFTER you've begun a project, yes?), a good bird-guide for Dave, Christopher Moore's Fool and a couple of Haven Kimmel novels. (I've never read any Kimmel but I am inclined toward liking her work). Mom found some books she liked too, and you cannot ask for much more out of a library trip than that.

I took mom home after the library but I didn't stop moving for long. Home to stash the vegetables and books and then back out to the salon where I got a new, much shorter do. I like it...no pictures yet, though. Then an early supper with Dave, a short exploration of the fancy-pants nursery on the corner across from the restaurant, back to mom's to show off the hair and then home.

My sister, Stephi, came by - which is always nice - and then a little later Anna and Jack and the Parental Units brought their dog to visit Mojo. And on and on and on...until I finally sat down to write this. I'm finally tired enough to sleep, I think. I hope it will be quieter tomorrow.

Family Portraits

Tonight, it's pictures again.

Christmas, 1989

Noon Day Baptist Church, Swainsboro, GA
Harbuck Family Reunion, 1990

Britt's High School Graduation - Effingham County High School - May 21, 2004

Feh.

Today I find my disgusted with the entire state of California. Exemptions are granted, of course, to the handful of people I know and love there. Also to the turtles at a particular pond in GG park, because I love them, too, even if they are not quite evolved enough to love me back. All the rest of it is on My List.

The reason, of course, is the decision the California State Supreme Court announced today in which they declined to overturn Proposition 8. They also declined to invalidate the 18K marriages that took place among Gay & Lesbian couples during the short period of time during which equal protection under was actually recognized in California (for which I applaud them, even as I consign them to My List), and thereby paved the way for another referendum/ballot intiative/vote on whether or not California - like so many other state in this country - will continue to deny the rights guaranteed by the 14th Amendment to a portion of its citizens.

Britt did not live long enough to see her country rise above this bigotry. She died knowing that there were people in her own family who thought she was good enough to be in their weddings...but not good enough to deserve one of her own. In her memory, and because I know it's the Right Thing to do, I'll continue to support equality for all Americans. I hope I live long enough to see it.

Cousin

Britt has a lot of cousins. There are a cool dozen of them and she loved each one of them* in the way that perhaps only an only child can. But, though she had so many cousins, she had only one Cousin.

Cousin was what she called my nephew Christopher. Christopher is nine months older than Britt and for years they were inseparable. They went to school together, played together, and got in trouble together. And when she died, his heart broke right along with ours. The years since have been hard for him.

Today, I spent a few hours editing Cousin's college application essay and talking to him about his plans for the future. Britt would love the idea of him off at college...of him making plans. I love it, too.

*Britt never met her littlest cousin, Jack, but she would have loved him to pieces.

Tantrum In My Head

Here's something you might have guessed: some days, I am very angry. Pissed off, perturbed beyond all reason, beyond annoyed with absolutely every one and every thing. Inside my head, I am a three year-old in full blown tantrum mode and I want to scream and hurl myself to the floor and kick things. I want to say out loud all the angry, hurtful, hateful things I am thinking and smash things into a million little pieces.

Of course, I don't do any of those things. I get snappy and snippy and start fights with Dave over what's for dinner or the current temperature of the air indoors as opposed the air outside. I mow the grass at a breakneck speed in the face of an approaching storm and ponder, abstractly, the odds of being struck by lightning. I do laundry until there isn't a single thing left in the house that needs washing. Then I wash things that aren't dirty. And I cry. A lot. Because it has to come out somehow and that full blown tantrum isn't going to cut it.

People will forgive a lot, I know. But there are lines that really cannot be crossed, words you cannot say because you can never unsay them, things you cannot put together after they've been broken; and so there are times, and places in my head, where I'll always be alone. And that is just one more thing that pisses me off.

On a cheerier note, here's a picture of Re-bar Chicken. I bought him at a roadside junk store about a dozen years ago. I saw him and just had to have him. Britt was the only person who ever understood the attraction. I miss how she really got me.

Modern-Day Dilemmas

Today I heard a bittersweet story about an old man and a digital picture frame. The old man in this story has early onset dementia and having pictures around helps him to remember faces he might otherwise forget. It also helps his caregivers to have a glimpse or several of the wonderful life he lived Before. So, in this very modern age, his daughters thought a digital picture frame would be a wonderful gift for him. Makes sense, yes? After all, space is limited in those assisted living places and there are only so many surfaces and so much wall space to accommodate frames. With a digital frame you can have hundreds of pictures...perfect. Only, not so much. One day, the daughters noticed that the old man had covered the picture frame with an article of clothing. Not one casually tossed, but one carefully placed to hide the pictures. When questioned, he explained that the picture frame made him uncomfortable. He'd look and see one picture and them look at it again and it was changed. And then changed again. He thought his mind was playing terrible tricks on him and he couldn't bear it.

I have one of those digital picture frames, too. I mostly love it. It was a present from Dave and he has loaded it with hundreds of pictures from the last last twenty-something years. It sits on my desk at work and every morning I boot up my computer and turn on my frame. Like most things that are there all the time it's mostly background after a year; like the pictures on my bookshelves and the framed certificates on my wall, I don't spend a whole lot of time just looking at it. But, every once in a while, I happen to glance over at it and am struck by the image on the screen. And every once in a while I am just felled by one and have to leave my office and go outside to the little smoking patio in the back and talk to the lab cats and collect myself. Like this one, of Britt crabbing on Kilkenny Creek. This one gets me every time.

What It's Like

I've been spending some time looking at old pictures lately, partly because it's something to do while I wait for the garden to need me and partly because pictures are a good way to remind me of the many things I want to say here. (Also, they make my posts look longer and give you something to do here if I'm babbling.)

This is a great picture:
It's Britt (second from left, for those of you who didn't know her when she was small) with her cousins, Chris, Bobby, and Megan. In case the giant mouse head on the lawn didn't clue you in, it was taken at Disney World where the cousins (and my sister Stephanie and I) had a grand time, marred only by the approximately three minutes that Megan - the youngest of the bunch - was lost. At Disney. The story had a happy ending (Megan's off at college preparing to be a doctor now) but anyone who's ever lost a child at the mall or the playground or in the house or at Disney knows what those three minutes were like. Panic. Fear. Dread. The overwhelming need to do something, to fix it, to make it right. The knowledge of the rightness of knowing that everything else must. stop. until this nightmare is over. The surge of adrenaline that makes you know you would do, could do anything...and then the crashing waves of relief when you see that tear-stained face, rushing towards you. You can breathe again and the anvil that was on your chest disappears and life. is. good.

Now, imagine - just for a moment - that the crashing wave of relief never comes. You will spend the rest of your life just inches from that place. Panic, fear, and dread live just below the surface of every minute of every day. And the world doesn't stop and the nightmare is never over but you have to find a way to breathe anyway. That's what it's like.

Camping

Recently my friend Lisa mentioned camping and I realized how very long it's been since I slept outside. Back when Britt was young, she loved being a Girl Scout and we camped a lot. Her high school years didn't leave a lot of time for camping; she was busy singing and dancing and acting and writing. But the last time I talked to her, two days before she died, one of things we talked about was camping out on the dock of the new house I was moving into that day. Summer was coming and the time for sleeping out and laughing and talking into the night was nigh. It never came but I wish it had. She was an excellent camper.

Perfect Timing

In mid-April, as my least favorite time of the year hit with a vengeance, I threw myself into making a garden in the backyard. I broke sod, dug a plot, shopped for plants, and hauled mulch. I borrowed tools and robbed Peter to pay Home Depot. I raided my mom's yard for odds and ends and statuary that she's been holding on to for me for years.

This is where we started, four weeks ago on April 19th:

And this is where we are today:


Mother's Day is drawing to a close. This year, I did not scream at anyone except Dave (who understands and whose turn is coming); I did not hear from everyone I thought I would and I heard from a few people who surprised me in the best possible way (that happens every year on these hard days and I probably shouldn't keep that tally in my head but I do, and I probably shouldn't be surprised and disappointed each time, but I am).

Darling Anna and Jack came to visit me, courtesy of their parental-units; here they are, sitting on the coffee table with their beautiful mother:


Every one is at home now, and the planting is finished. After four weeks of spending every available minute of daylight working/digging/moving/sweating, there's nothing to do now but water when the rains are delayed and wait. Couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it.

Mother's Day

If ever there's a day that's fraught with landmines and potential sneaker waves after you've lost a child it's this one. So far, this particular one has been pretty smooth. (It's early and I hope I haven't jinxed it.) I've been bustling about, catching up on the chores I've been neglecting while I've been obsessing over the vegetable garden and just letting the memories come as they will. One is especially sweet.

The year that Britt was seven she asked if she could throw a party for 'ALL the mommies' in her life. She invited me (I was flattered), both her grandmothers, my grandmother, and her aunts who lived in town. Everyone accepted and she was very excited about hosting her first grownup party. We had pastries and coffee and iced tea. There was lots of laughter (she graciously allowed her father to attend and eat some things but not some of everything because, after all, he was NOT a mommy). The best part, though, were the gifts, because she'd worked so hard on them and was so proud. She presented each of us with a strawberry pot filled with impatiens. Mine was larger than the others (flattered again), but they were all lovely and I was very proud of both her accomplishment and her sweetness.


Being Britt's mom is still the best gift ever. This pot was a pretty great one, too.

Lots of Words...But Random

My friend Sue over at A Life Divided had these cool Wordles on her page today, so I made one, too. I tried to make it bigger, but finally gave up. If you click on it, it's easier to read.

Marigolds for My Girl

Britt loved marigolds. She used to call planting them 'growing sunshine'. Our early flower gardens were mostly shaded and not particularly suited to growing them. She nurtured them in small pots in sunny spaces and wished for a huge, sunny yard. Then, that wish came true and we spent four years with a huge yard that got lots of sun. Every year, after we planted the vegetable garden, she and I would make a special trip to the nursery and gather some of every sort of marigold they had. Orange, red, yellow, small and big and even the giant African marigolds came home with us. We'd plant them around the vegetables like sentinels and she loved that her Growing Sunshine also helped to kept the pests away.

So, last night, in the last empty space in the vegetable plot, I planted a row of marigolds for my girl. We could all use a little extra sunshine, yes?

Marking The Day

This year's special remembrance of Britt was the flower garden I made in the old fire pit that was half-buried in our backyard. When I first moved in and explored this yard, I thought I would make fires there and sit and think about my girl. We've passed two winters here, and never got around to that. First, the fire pit was poorly placed by it's original builder; situated under the overhanging branches of the neighbor's trees, it seemed more a fire hazard. Secondly, I'm not a fan of cold weather and if it's cold enough to sit around fires, well, I'd rather be inside.

She loved our gardens when she was small (though as a teen she was more enthusiastic tender than planter) and so all of the gardening I've been doing lately has been a good way to spend time with her in my head. Last Saturday's flower garden was special though - a bed of impatiens was the first thing she and I ever planted and she loved the way they would lay down when they were thirsty and stand up ('so fast you can see them move!') so quickly after she watered them - and I surrounded it with the Frog Band she gave her Daddy for Father's Day one year.

More Words

My friend Sue over at A Life Divided is doing a Blogathon this month, wherein she will try to post everyday during May. I'm not going to promise to do that, but I am going to try to post more frequently about what the day-to-day is like. (Think of me as the girl intermittently handing out water during a marathon. Not a runner...a water girl.)

Today, I have hit a wall. It was a hard weekend, followed by a short but busy week at work and I am wrung out. I had planned to accompany Dave to his out-of-town gig tonight but instead I am sending him off with Googled directions and a cell phone. I've been smiling and being alternately charming and competent and efficient for four solid days and my well is dry. There is laundry and raking and watering and mulching - all are calling my name. But also the final pages of Ann Hood's Comfort and sitting on the porch and watching Mojo roll in the grass. First things first.

Time and Lies and a Little Piece of Truth

Last Saturday, the 25th, was the fourth anniversary of Britt's death. It feels like forever. It feels like yesterday. At the same time. It is a forever of yesterdays ago. I have been thinking about time a lot lately: never enough of it; always too much of it; how to fill it; how to spend it; what to do with all the time before and after and since and until.

Time. I took time off from work, knowing that I would be distracted and ill-suited. Four days loomed ahead of me and I wondered how I would fill them. One day for Nothing. And I had it and I loved it and I hated it and I did not get dressed and I ate chocolate and drank wine and I cried and read and slept and I slept some more. Three more days that slipped by in a blur of manufactured busy-ness and chosen pauses. Sharp and bitter and sweet.

Time. And the lies that people tell you about it. Time heals all wounds. No, it doesn't. In time, you'll feel better. No, I won't. It will get easier, with time. No, it hasn't. Enough time. After a time. Given some time. In time. Time passes. Time haunts me.

And, then, last night, I finally read a truth about time, nestled inside Comfort by Ann Hood. I cannot really say I found comfort in the book (a beautifully written and unflinchingly honest memoir about losing a child), but I did find some words that rang very true. These were the truest: "Time does not heal. It passes. And carries us along with it."

Yes.