Now Playing: Not Christmas music! Two more days!

I’m going to be maudlin, because I need to be. Word Raccoon says go right ahead and is standing by with a frown and a shaken bottle of Coke Zero to spray at anyone who complains.

Today, I threw away the last of the condolence flowers. I had to think and think to remember how they even came into the house. Were they delivered? Did someone bring them by? Did we pick them up?

I just couldn’t remember.

The vase is on the counter. I think I’ll wash it and donate it. I hate to throw it away, but I don’t need another one. It’s pretty, blue, large, but it’s…

Another one.

I can’t think too hard about what that means right now.

I need to say something that will likely piss off or hurt people I love. But I do need to say it. I guess I’ve said it before, but in different words.

My sister Cherokee was, in my heart, my third child. And maybe that helps explain why it’s been so tough.

When my oldest sister Tammy passed (only 17 months ago, dear god), I was hurt, I was broken, but she told us she was ready to go. That she was too tired to stay. Though she was a fighter, by the end, she was suffering, and none of us wanted that.

We were there when she passed. We knew it was happening. We told her over and over that we loved her. We sang to her. 

I saw the most beautiful kiss I have ever witnessed. 

Then we had the funeral. We gathered, told stories, and went to eat at her favorite restaurant afterward.

We grieved as a family.

Then our mom. She died in June. Again, we knew she was suffering, and things weren’t going to improve. Her quality of life was going downhill.

We were with her when she passed. We had her funeral.

With Cherokee, we haven’t had that. It’s been tough.

Today, going through the drive-thru after the gym, I saw the woman in the vehicle behind me.

She looked like Cher.

Healthy Cherokee. Before.

She did and she didn’t look like her. I knew it wasn’t her, of course, but I wondered if that’s what she would’ve looked like, had she not been ravaged by drugs.

The woman’s cheeks were full. She smiled. She glowed.

I don’t know the last time Cher looked that way.

I drove home. I came inside. I put my straw into my Coke Zero.

I picked up my laptop, put on my robe, and came to the porch.

There are some aches only writing can touch.

Word Raccoon replenished my porch stock of gingersnaps because they are apparently now Drema’s official mourning cookie. Didn’t know I was such a fan.

I wrote in cafés twice this week. Had some inspiring conversations. Wrote the poems. I learned the shy barista I thought maybe didn’t like me had actually told the new, talkative manager, “Don’t scare her off. We like her.”
Aw…same. 

WR and I went to the thrift shop and bought the white Christmas tree yesterday. It didn’t come with a box because of course it didn’t, but it’s pretty. I think it’ll be the porch tree. I can’t wait to see how Word Raccoon decides to decorate it. 

How we decorate: 

1. Put up the tree.
2. Gather items from around the house/holiday boxes/get an idea.
3. Start putting stuff on.
4. Repeat.

We let the tree tell us how it wants to be decorated. 

One year we put up five trees. Usually it’s just two, one large, one small. This year I may put up a dozen. I might go back to the thrift shop and buy all of the trees they have. 

I may put so many in the house we can’t walk between them. 

Or not. 

YES, I KNOW THE HOLIDAYS ARE GOING TO SUCK, HERBERT! I’M AWARE! 

Which is why we are planning now. 

As I said at the top of the post, only two days left until Christmas music listening time. I think I need it more than usual. I am going to play it on repeat, wear that shit out. 

Maybe the latter part of this post seems frivolous, but WR says tough shit. And would you like a Coke Zero, shaken, not stirred?