Dear Reader,
Apparently I’m writing a new poetry collection.
Hear me out, please, before you change this bat channel.
Word Raccoon and I came to the porch pre-Mawgy’s memorial, before it was light out, before doing the remaining tasks for the day.
Something You Should Know:
One of my mottos in life has been Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down.
Obviously, that’s shorthand for not allowing life’s reversals to take away the joy and beauty of being alive.
God, WR says, that sounds too Pippi Longstocking by far, minus the profanity, of course.
I agree, WR, but let me finish!
(She wants to insert a juvenile punchline from The Office TV show, but I am not going to let her. I know she’s only deflecting.)
Anyway.
After the Coke Zero this morning, this wee raccoon beastie asked me to head to the porch before dawn and write.
No agenda, not from either of us.
Actually, the last thing we were planning to write was anything grief-soaked.
Grief takes so many damn forms, and honestly, I’m tired of that MF’ing shape-shifter. I don’t think there’s a flavor I haven’t tried. (Flavor/shape-shifter…I will manage my metaphors any damn way I please, thank you very much. We are not charging by the word, WR says. Opposite.)
Once on the porch, I opened a Word doc and wrote the first thing that came to mind. Here are the (for now) poetry titles in the order in which I wrote them:
Just Another Grief Poem (it’s not)
Lifeboat Contestants (this one has a live wire)
Season Tickets to Death (that’s gotta also be the title of the collection, am I right?)
Opportunity Cost (my mom loved that phrase)
Only four so far, but as soon as it gets lighter out there are Things I Need to Do. Like vacuum out the car and put it back together especially since we might provide post-memorial transportation to dinner and it was a dune buggy a couple of weeks ago and I have not taken the time to reassemble it or remove the sand.
Make sure the house is tidied in case out-of-state guests and/or close family come over before or after.
Obviously, get ready for the memorial late this afternoon.
Be on troubleshooting alert, because day-of can get messy:
Did the thank-you card to the minister get prepared with the honorarium inside? (I went to the ATM yesterday, dug out a card as well, but it is not made out yet, as that is not my task, though I would do it if needed.)
Did the message from the aunt who cannot be here get printed so it can be read at the appropriate time?
Check the multiple family text threads to be sure nothing has been overlooked.
Family who were stuck at O’Hare make it in yet?
Restaurant reservation made for after?
Anyone need transportation?
Mints?
Kleenex?
Be on deck to run errands if anyone has forgotten anything.
Notice when family members have been standing too long and need a chair or someone to lead them downstairs for coffee/a break.
Give the chattier family members a heads-up when The Song comes on that is intended to lead them to their chairs for the actual service.
On and on…and I’m happy to do these things.
While this is my loss as well, it’s buffered enough by relation that I am glad I can think of these things, since my mind is not overshadowed. And my son will be there. Being helpful and knowing the right thing to say at funerals is his superpower.
(Although we have learned from experience that we cannot be sat beside one another for any serious event, or inevitably one of us will begin laughing inappropriately and the other will catch it. It’s embarrassing, but I can admit it.)
Anyway, this beginning of a poetry collection is a morning surprise and has allowed me to empty the grief tanks enough to move through today with a clearer head, to be there for those who will need me.
That’s what we do for one another, isn’t it?
The squirrels and their kin came to check on me, too. Lovely.
Drema