She kept me up until after three with her nonsense.
Not only did she accuse me of earring theft, which, I was the one who ordered them, sweet writing wreck, but I was pretty disappointed myself not to know where they are.
She said more.
This morning, I had my finger on the “buy” button for a new set when I decided to hold off. They had to be somewhere. I knew I had worn them on the way to Mackinac Island, so maybe they were in my jacket pocket?
There I found a scarf, a pair of gloves, and a shopping bag. No matter. It’s a many-pocketed garment. I kept frisking it, and it kept saying it knew nothing. IDK what it knows, but it yielded no earrings. Damn.
She has been relentless today, rendering me almost unable to write with her over caffeinated nonsense.
I thought I’d check the purse I brought on the trip. You know, the ridiculously shiny one that my brother basically roasted me over when he saw me carrying it for the first time.
“You can call it tacky,” I said. But my eyebrow was raised so he didn’t dare.
Speaking of my brother, yesterday he discovered his heart, his doggie, was missing, Sheen. I offered to drive around his town, make phone calls, post flyers. That dog is super special to him, and I knew he would be devastated if he didn’t find him. I couldn’t believe this was happening to him on top of us just having lost our mother.
Within an hour, someone had delivered Sheen back to his arms. I wish I had been there to kiss them. That’s happy ending number one, and I’m so delighted for him.
WR harassed me early this morning, nipping at my toes when I said I wanted to sleep, saying it was time to write.
So we write on, WR. (Despite her nonsense, I’m nibbling at my novel very nicely. At least now that my brain has cooled a bit.)
As I was saying…Her rant made me go back to that ridiculous pink bag I had brought on the trip. I thought I had gone through it thoroughly, but Gretchen Rubin says something about check where it was last, twice. So I hunted through it.
You know, don’t you? You know what comes next.
YES, I FOUND THE EARRINGS!!
Word Raccoon jumped up and down so furiously I could barely contain her. She didn’t care that I am wearing a t-shirt and what I will generously call (ugh) Mom jeans (why??), she insisted I put the earrings in this instant.
Looks like I’m the one who gets the Snickers for finding the earrings. But I will share a baby, fragile, poem with you just in case you agree with Word Raccoon and not me.
(Also missing, inexplicably? Some of the letters for the above poster. But whatever.)
Now Playing: Hide and Seek. (See title.)
Okay, I’ve done it now. Word Raccoon is not speaking to me because I HAVE MISPLACED HER PINK POM POM EARRINGS. We went to find them this morning. They are nowhere to be found.
What’s worse, she skipped wearing a hat today specifically to wear those earrings. Now she has neither. And she is livid.
Are they in the van? No. One of my seventeen bags? (Barry asked me to pare down. I did. Until I didn’t.) Nope. In the writing room? Nightstand? Desk? No, no, no.
Sunporch? Reader, would I be writing this if they were?
I’m sure they’ll turn up. They must. And though they were handcrafted, I can probably buy a similar pair. But I’d rather not.
Stop hissing, WR. I said if need be.
Reader, if you see them, please let me know. I will reward you with my undying gratitude, a Snickers bar, and possibly a poem. (Substitutions available for those with nut allergies or genre preferences.)
Because of this tragic earring displacement (Ha! No vector quantity intended—though honestly, Word Raccoon is pure displacement), she has refused to write any poems today.
I managed to wrangle one and a half myself, but they’re squirmy. The one might end up titled Fountainhead, which feels too grand for a poem that includes stage directions and a water tank. The other is…naked. It needs both clothes and a reason for being.
But I don’t question the muse. That’s useless. I’m just the chosen mind-muppet. I do occasionally get tired of doing backflips, but I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll turn invisible again. And I could not bear that.
Not-as-Cutesy Interlude: This Is Me Yelling at Artists I Love
Okay, here it is. I know the rest of this post has been lost earrings and emotional varmints. But sit down, sweeties, because I’m feral about art and you need to hear this:
Performance art is lovely. Fleeting. A firework in July. But it fizzes and burns out. And we need that! We do.
But if you fancy yourself an artist, and you’re spending all your creative energy on vibes and charisma and charming your way through a room (yes, even with an instrument), where’s the legacy?
Where’s the sentence someone scribbles into the margin of their grief journal? Where’s the poem that makes a person late to dinner because they had to reread it just to survive?
I’ve heard lines that made me lose my breath and sent me running from rooms. Words braided into something almost holy. Words I wanted to tattoo on the inside of my wrist.
So. Sit your ass down and write it. Write my first tattoo. You can go with me while I get it. I am offering my skin for your words. It’s not like you can’t say I have no skin in the game.
(I don’t know whether or not I’m serious about that, so many limits apply. But slap some words on paper in front of me. Hell, include a freaky little drawing, and we’ll talk.)
Write the story. Write the messy half-draft. Write a song you’re not sure anyone will hear, but if you need an audience, I’m here.
Write a grocery list that ends with a line so honest you have to hide it in your pocket. (Is there such a line? Nothing’s too honest for me.)
If you’ve got the gift, use it. The world is already too loud with performance.
What it’s starving for is quiet brilliance tucked into a line break.
Yours. Recorded on paper, online. Wherever.
Now. Where are those blasted earrings?
(Maybe they’re hiding with the poems. Maybe they’re waiting to be found together. Ah, that sounds cozy.)
“He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. ‘Do you know I’m very much afraid of it – of that remarkable mind of yours?’” — Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady
Likewise, Mr. James. Though I’m not sure I’m afraid. More like fascinated. I could “talk” to you forever. (Reading counts as talking, right?)
This morning, I visited a coffeehouse I hadn’t tried before. It was just what I needed, at least on a Monday, especially this Monday, as I try to reenter the world. I want to say so many things about it, but my heart feels quiet. Contented. Seen. Heard. Move along. The jewelry box is closed—except to its owner. It has a key, but you have to earn it with stories and poems.
Speaking of owners, the owner of the coffeehouse told me proudly that he brews his own lavender syrup, and I told him I’d sip my London Fog with reverence to acknowledge it, and I did. When I returned indoors, he looked eagerly for my verdict. “Fantastic. I’ll be back,” I said. Though maybe not every day.
I tend to frequent my old haunt, full of so many memories. It’s now run by a nonprofit that trains people who need jobs. Here’s how they describe themselves:
“A coffee house experience that opens new doors for an inclusive community. Advocating for individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. A community experience like no other, with a delicious cup of coffee!”
They’re lovely people, and I want to support them as much as I can. And that porch. That long covered porch with its slatted ceiling and acorn-shaped finials. The Japanese maple I’ve watched grow more handsome each year. The floors I’ve walked while rocking a sentence. Almost 18 years of history now, though this is the second owner. Eighteen years. How can that be?
You’d think I’d be over drinking tea outdoors by now. Nope. I will always love it. I’m okay with that.
Yesterday, I opened my novel and really thought through it, something I haven’t done in a while. It’s going to require reworking, which is both exciting and frustrating. You’d think I could write one novel, just one, without circling endlessly. Bring the damn plane in for a landing, Word Raccoon. I think she’s just too nosy, always wanting to see what everyone else is up to. Curious. Let’s call her that instead.
Today, I opened another novel, the physical copy of Portrait, and found I was starving for it. It came alive in a way the AirPods version just doesn’t. Like eating real food after days of funeral cookies. I sat with it, touching sentences like the letters were raised. I hope I never lose that feeling for beautiful words and the story they build.
(What’s a synonym for sentence? I can’t think of any, only distant cousins. Well, period used to be one, but that’s archaic now, except in academia, if I remember correctly. Hmm…I wonder when it became associated with end punctuation. I could look that up, but not now.)
Sometimes, when you press on a sentence with your finger, you can see something liquid come from it. Nectar? Water? Wine? I don’t know what to call it, but it’s quenching.
Speaking of real food and drink: I wanted a salad for lunch, but I was too tired to go get one. And I cannot believe this, but we had zero vegetables in the refrigerator. Do not trust websites that chirp, “Hey, tell me what’s in your cabinets and fridge and I’ll tell you what you can make.” I feel betrayed. And more than a little unsatisfied by the dubious results featuring microwaved frozen vegetables, canned chicken, and kimchi topped with “bam bam” sauce.
I gave that kimchi a free ride to the trash can. (I have a grocery order coming tomorrow, so I’m good. Or I will be.)
My husband’s band is playing this Friday in Huntington. I’ll be rushing there from a hair appointment, because apparently, the longer your hair is, the longer it takes (that can’t be right). But hey, my hair will be ready.
Also… rumor has it the gig is half a block from a bookstore. I might have to sneak off and scout for more poetry.
We were watching Hacks last night (I DID NOT SEE THAT PLOT TWIST COMING!) and just: wow. Those writers are UH-MAZING. They embody the “leave it all on the floor” philosophy. They twist again, leaving nothing but the recurring themes and echoes.
While watching, I happened upon something online, an object that had belonged to a painter, and I was mesmerized. I wish I could show it to you, but it ripped a poem out of me and I don’t think I can even share the title yet without giving away my little plot twist. Rats.
I think I only wrote one other poem yesterday: On Learning (Redacted, but a Relative) Read Fifty Shades of Grey and Not My Novel (FYI: I have not read those books. Not my style.)
I’ve only written one poem today. Maybe my poetry doesn’t like the kimchi either.
No matter. I’m still mentally sipping that London Fog and reading Portrait of a Lady. Or is that Henry James drinking it?
Friends, thank you for your patience as I process my mother’s death and burial. This series is almost at its end for now. I think. I hope.
I honestly had no idea I’d write about all this. But maybe I’m doing it to help myself process her passing. My father died in December about a decade ago, and between the timing and the cold, I was miserable for months. It lingers, of course it does.
There’s so much to be grateful for. So many people showed up for me in ways that were wildly personal and kind yesterday.
(I can already tell this post is going to be clumsy, with everyday language and plain old porch-thoughts. No fancy dress today.)
That’s disappointing, Word Raccoon.
Hey, Word Raccoon? WR?
I think she’s sleeping in.
It’s 6:30 AM. I’m on the sunporch. An acquaintance just jogged past, even though it’s been raining. Go, friend, go.
This is all throat-clearing.
Poems I wrote yesterday:
Pop-Splattered Van
Last Supper
More Than Meets the Eye
There may be more hiding in my Notes app.
(Dude’s now walked a lap around the block. If you’re going to play the roving sentinel, you might as well bring cookies. Maybe he’s trying to get a good view of Pity the Fool, my silly, flashy robe. Step right up, sir. I’m eating leftover rolls for breakfast. Does that appeal?)
At the funeral, something remarkable happened. A classmate from college knelt beside me where I sat on a loveseat. He took my hand and recited Emily Dickinson poems, beautifully, without breaking eye contact. (I didn’t even blink. Why do people fear eye contact? I find it bonding.)
I thanked him and began reciting I Died for Beauty, then paused. “Perhaps not the right tone for a funeral?” I said. Word Raccoon can’t leave a tender moment alone.
“I’ve been writing poetry nonstop,” I told him.
He rose and sat in a chair.
He invited me to read at an event he’s hosting. I thanked him, squirming. I’m not sure my poetry is the kind people listen to aloud. It’s probably better metabolized in private.
He read the memorial poem I wrote for my mom. “Beautiful,” he said. “May I use this?” He mentioned a use that felt purposeful. “It’s personalized, so I’m not sure how universal it is. But if you want to, of course.” “Who knew when we sat in class all those years ago…”
Who knew someone would gift me Dickinson poems at a funeral? The gift I gave in return was to sit still, unblinking, fully receptive. A gift of beauty deserves no less a reception, though it takes courage sometimes to accept.
(My jogger friend is back, round two. Should I wave or pretend I don’t see him for his comfort? I think I’ll be the Queen of Unseeing this morning. It’s overcast and I haven’t turned the porch light on.)
Other unexpected kindnesses yesterday: A friend brought a small, perfect gift bag. Inside was a homemade lemon curd thumbprint cookie (so good I paused mid-bite and insisted Barry try it), other candies, small composition books for writing, and, this detail kills me, a lipstick, because I had run into her the day before and mentioned I was reading James.
The lipstick? Just my shade.
Former coworkers came, too, my forever heart friends. We made lunch plans for soon. It did me good to see them.
Relatives, near and far, came on a stunningly beautiful day. I appreciated anyone willing to be indoors at all.
These are fragments. I’m sure I’m forgetting people who deserve to be honored. If so, I apologize.
Of the service itself I’ll say only this: my mother would have loved it. Barry sang, even though he could barely get through the song. There were lovely letters read, heartfelt stories from many. It was perfect.
Barry’s uncle stayed for the service and afterward said, “I came a McFarland; I’m leaving a Sizemore.”
No, you’re crying.
Before the service a friend sat with me. (I was mingling plenty too, I promise, but I’ve learned to take breaks when needed. Being honored, while a great kindness, can be exhausting. Especially when people you don’t know show up for your mother. You’re grateful, but also making small talk about death. That’s the hurdle, isn’t it?)
(Runner, round three. He clocked me this time. Next round, I’ll wave. Bedhead curls, flashy robe, and all.)
Let’s talk awkward.
A man my mother used to know came and sat with me and my son. I brought up something I knew he was once passionate about, and he responded with something sad and saggy. I shifted to asking about his family. Heartache again. I bailed. Claimed I needed to speak with someone else.
I never run from hard conversations. But this one, I did.
If by some miracle he reads this (he won’t): I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I know that sorrow. I was the right person, just wrong time, friend.
Another friend gave me the biggest squeeze and sat with me. It was exactly what I needed.
Yet another friend forgave me for the half hug I unintentionally gave her as I was being called away. I caught back up with her for a proper hug a few minutes later. Effort deserves rewarding.
(Round four. Training for a marathon, or hoping to glimpse Barry’s LP collection?)
Okay, second confession: I diverted a talkative guest at the funeral.
She shared her own griefs with me, fine, but we had migrated to stand directly in front of my mother’s casket, and I was feeling almost disrespectful to my mother, letting her yammer on. Everyone loves my brother, so…
“Have you spoken with Rod? I know he’d love to catch up,” I said.
Later: “Did you talk to her?” he asked. “Oh yes,” I said. “I couldn’t get away from her.” “Is that right?” I replied.
It’s a brother-sister thing. Trust me, I owe that brat some grief. I’m kidding. I owe him many things and none of them grief.
A delightful couple Barry and I love (and see too rarely) came with family news I’m not sure they’re sharing yet, but it was joyous. They are hilarious and sparkly, and I was so glad to see them.
(Two baby squirrels are playing in the yard. They’re mirroring each other. The birds just joined them. By themselves, and adjacent to.)
Someone sent us a gorgeous wind chime. Another gave us an ornate lantern with the sweetest sentiment. Tangible offerings that will likely live on the sunporch but will require opening the windows to sound the chimes, of course. Great by me.
Zack and I talked about poetry and songwriting. He read my poem about my mom and said it was interesting to watch my growth as a writer. I…didn’t know he’d been watching my writing at all.
“Your poem doesn’t rhyme,” he said, “I have a problem with my poetry rhyming.”
“I don’t think rhyming is a problem. It’s just a choice,” I said.
He mentioned struggling with verses in songwriting, too; he can write a hook, but the verses stall out, he said.
“Try taking your hook and expanding on what it is saying with examples as verses,” I said. It seemed to help. Not applicable in all cases, but a place to start? He liked the solution.
(Round five. You’re earning quite the breakfast, friend. Don’t think I didn’t see you slow down at the corner. Do running shoes, like bikes, have brakes?)
All of these little things, these moments and more, are what held me together.
There were tears, of course. So many. But also:
I fixated on the crooked hardware on my mother’s casket graveside.
“Do you see that?” I asked Barry. He’s in quality control; I’m sure he did.
As the graveside service continued (may I gently suggest we consider a tighter format for next time?), I found myself wondering about the person who assembled the casket. Were they distracted? At the end of their shift? Or did they think, “It’s going in the ground—no one will notice”?
That would sting the most.
Then again, maybe it happened in transit. Pallbearers jostled it. Accidentally, of course.
It gave me something to mull over and to feel indignant about other than the fact that we were about to abandon my mother. Something other than grief. Something other than the ground. Something like: I’m giving her back to my father and sister, not just losing her.
(Sorry, I don’t know when the jogger gave up, because I went indoors shortly after Round 5. But I see him at the café frequently, and I will ask him there how long he went. He’s a music professor at our local university, and he was disappointed to hear that my husband and I went to an Adrian Belew concert a few years ago that he hadn’t heard was coming nearby. BTW, my kids always LOVED “Dinosaur” growing up.)
Random words to end on, I know, but I feel grief sneaking back in. I think it’s time I take it for a ride.
P.S. I was able to sneak a partially obstructed view of one of the squirrels. Enjoy!
“I was there. You had only to come and see me.” Isabel Archer, Portrait of a Lady
Word Raccoon’s Log: 6:47 AM, My Sunporch. Wearing: Pity the Fool. It’s a robe. With a backstory. Hold your horses.
Playing: “Landslide.” But not in the sad way. Not really. At least not this morning.
Last night I sang along to “Landslide” until my throat was raw. Girl, if you’d seen the post (since deleted) that I saw, you would have, too. I’m beginning to despise social media.
Stevie Nicks says:
“Can I handle the seasons of my life?”
I will, but I might ruin my throat while doing it.
Last night, my son was unexpectedly available for much-needed hugs and dinner, and he grinned and finished my sentence when I asked if he minded if we went for…Chinese. He’s not the biggest fan of it but he is a fan of me, so he, his father, and I ate what is one of the only real meals I’ve had this past week. I haven’t cared and haven’t noticed I didn’t care until yesterday when Barry and I were watching a cooking show.
“I think I want some real food,” I said. Well, it was steak, so probably any meat eater would’ve started salivating. And before you go assuming Barry’d be the one grilling, some days it seems as if we will slap battle one another with spatulas and tongs to decide who gets to. (No grilling utensils were harmed in either this post or real life.)
We have very different grilling methods. But that’s another post for another day.
Earlier in the day, Henry James held me together as I listened to Portrait of a Lady while cleaning…I wonder if Henry James ever imagined someone would be listening to his book while wearing rubber gloves.
I’m not a big fan of audiobooks unless I’m doing something else while I listen. This was just right for keeping me situated inside myself. I fully intend to switch back to my physical copy next week. BTW, hadn’t meant to listen to more than the preface, but I couldn’t not.
The last thing I remember hearing last night was an exchange between Isabel and who was it? Sorry. So specific, LOL. I’ll have to re-read it – I was drifting off. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it.
Anyway, the gist of it was the woman with Isabel was horrified that Isabel might not know how to comport herself in her current situation. And when Isabel said she should like to know what other young women might do, her companion asked if it was so she could imitate it, and Isabel said no, so she could decide if she would or not. That’s a delicious distinction.
Oh, Isabel, you beautiful, independent, woman. We’re the same person.
I could write reams on mindless compliance vs. well-considered decisions. And don’t get me started on manners…I could write even more!
Etiquette as a guide to making everyone comfortable and, to an extent, signal the expected, sure. If you’re at a State Dinner. If you’re in church. If your grandmother has come to visit wearing her pearls. Of course if you can manage it without compromising yourself. But mindless, nitpicky “use this fork or be branded a rube” nonsense? Stop it!
(And yes, I do know which fork to use when. But sweetie, if I am sitting beside someone who uses the wrong one, I’m going to do the same because that’s the greater kindness to them rather than embarrass them by pointing out that they’re not using the “correct” one.)
Superiority signaled by the lifting of an eating implement is surely an inferior sort, am I right? That says nothing about your good qualities and everything about your bad.
And think of the monuments dedicated to “the dignified.” Wait…that’s not a thing?
Damn right it’s not!
The soul does not carry a copy of Emily Post’s finest work.
And it’s not that I won’t allow others their tiny, comforting rituals (I see you pulling that cape of decorum around your shoulder, your face. You’re not Dracula, darling! I see what you’re trying to hide with it, and may I say, there’s no reason to, babe), it’s when others bind and entangle with their manner of manners that I chafe and want to call for a pair of scissors.
Following the rules of living is not…living, my precious bird.
Not that I’m passionate about that type of thing or going full tilt Word Raccoon on you. There’s a phrase about even a king must…WR, stop! We get the point!
I reckon death makes you think of unusual topics heatedly, at unexpected times.
And lest it be misunderstood, I’m not embracing anarchy or foolhardiness or rebellion, though perhaps of the smaller kind I am. Just tiny, freeing acts overthrowing the unelected governor of your soul, babe.
The muse can dig through the layers, but why make it? Wipe away the dross. Have a napkin, sugar. It’s linen.
A peal of laughter just came from somewhere in the neighborhood, and it was glorious. So free, so spontaneous. It’s early yet, so I’m surprised but delighted to hear it.
A friend sneakily dropped by a gift and two cards yesterday.
Someone said she is sending flowers to our house today. There will be plenty of lovely flowers at the funeral home, I assume tomorrow, so it will be nice having them at home, too. It’s so thoughtful of her.
The messages, texts, cards, and subtler, drive-by condolences continue. I feel them all, even if only out of the corner of my soul’s eye. Something in me senses them, and I huddle them to me.
Oh, yes, the “Pity the Fool” robe backstory. So a couple of years ago I ordered a velveteen holiday jacket. Bold gold. It was long, stately, and I thought even after the holidays I might wear it occasionally on a night out with boots and jeans as a statement piece.
When it arrived, it was a glorified robe, and I now wear it as such. It’s gold, like boxer-robe gold, and it’s so tacky it makes me smile every time I see it. So now my neighbors get to see it, too, when I wear it (over my clothes) on the porch.
You’re welcome.
Here’s hoping this warmup has summoned the muse. I’d like a good writing session today. I have had some Coke Zero and I am ready to shadow box the world.
And if I start singing “Landslide” again by noon? So be it.
Ooh, look who slept till 6:30. Good on me. (I hate that phrase for no reason, but I’m keeping it.)
The day stretches out in front of me. Chores, sure, we’ve covered that. Coffee or Coke Zero soon. Please, God.
On today’s crucial to-do list:
Sort the breadbasket (it gets away from you)
Reclaim the fruit bowl from the brink
So far, my brain, currently emperor of this body, has not deigned to tell me whether I’m allowed to work, read, or write. So far, nothing appeals.
I tried a poem about the Libby app earlier. It’s got promise. It’s also wonky. It feels like that essay on the evils of technology that Frank self-importantly writes in You’ve Got Mail. We’ll circle back.
I’m not sleepy. I don’t want to watch someone else’s version of reality.
A friend texted: “How are you feeling?” “Not myself.” “It’ll take a minute.”
Unfortunately, I already knew that. She, too, has had occasion to grieve. Bless her.
But I’m a little more myself today.
Yesterday, I found that Henry James author’s preface to Portrait on Librivox and listened to it like it was a sermon after having read it for about two hours. Got it, got it, got it.
Yesterday, I napped.
I woke up.
I remembered again.
Every time, like new.
It’s probably ridiculous, but I don’t like her being alone at the funeral home. I want her planted between my dad and my sister where she belongs. Safe. Protected.
That version of her at the hospital, the “her” she’d become in the past year, wasn’t her, not really.
Not until I looked through the old photo albums to make the memory board.
Then, the woman who died became also my mother, not just the sweet, quiet shell I helped guide into the afterlife. I’m tempted to overexplain that. But you get it, right?
A friend is having a party on Saturday. When I saw it on the calendar, I texted her: “Obviously, I won’t make it.” She understood.
Last summer, she and I drove out to the cemetery. I “introduced” her to the plot. We sat on my dad’s bench and caught up. (My mom’s name is on it too, but until now I never thought of it as “their” bench.)
Forgot I have to wash my hair today. It’s getting long because I’m growing it to donate. But for now, I’m kinda liking it this length, even though some would say at this age I shouldn’t. Washing and drying it are a whole thing with these curls. Today, that’s fine.
Today will fill itself up. No doubt. But my fingers ache with the weather, and everything I write feels like it belongs in a children’s book—just… not the content.
I have nothing fresh to offer. Nothing witty. I’m not even listening to music. Just the hum of the fridge.
I took an ibuprofen, am flexing my fingers. They’ll be fine soon enough.
Wish the rest of me would recover as quickly.
I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to read here. Nothing to see.
My to-do list leading up to Mom’s service on Saturday is shrinking. Finally. (I should say this is just my portion of the list. Other family members have done as much and more.)
Mom’s obituary? Published.
Poem written for the memorial cards? Check. Notifying family and friends? Done. Trying to overlook the pettiness of people who are hurting? Ongoing…
Picture board of my branch of the family? Complete.
(Upside down and with sparkle. It makes sense if you see it. It’s more collage than not; if you know me, that tracks.)
I had no idea it would wreck me to make it, going back through picture albums, choosing, piecing together memories, some half remembered. Crying over the one where my mom and dad look so happy on a random afternoon on their living room couch, the one with my kiddos with them, my son at nine squished against my mom, beaming while Mia, our eldest, smiles at my dad. Wishing I had even more choices.
I listened to Comfort Eagle in my AirPods the whole time as my heart ached over so many things. This time, there was a good ache in there, too. Thankfulness.
Tomorrow is house cleaning day. Not glamorous, but necessary. It’s fine. No, really. As long as someone else does the dishes. And the laundry. And maybe cleans the bathrooms.
I’m joking, of course. Barry and I will likely divide the chores like a thoroughly modern couple. Unless oops, I sleep in and the chores magically do themselves? Wink. (He’s taking his remaining bereavement days late in the week to help prep for visitors since the funeral is on Saturday.)
What will I do in the meantime? Like, today? Unclear. It’s not even 5 am yet here I am, at the page.
It’s a strange, liminal time. I want to write but do I really want to?
(Sorry/not sorry for practically live blogging. This is hows we drains the pain, lovelies.)
Wind gusts may drive me indoors today at the cafe, dang it. But I’ll still be…what? At my laptop, hoping for inspiration, for ?
I’m saying it might not matter because I’m not gonna exactly be a productivity czar.
I was there yesterday, and one of the employees who knows my niece came up and hugged me. She had heard. I barely know this young woman and yet I felt myself leaning into her. There’s something to being able to draw strength from others after all.
Another employee who did not know, but a sweetie, had newly learned I was an author (idk how she heard that) and was telling me she had ordered one of my books. I thanked her, of course, and she asked me if that’s what I do when I’m at the café, write novels?
Sometimes, friend. Sometimes.
Sometimes I’m doing other work.
Sometimes I’m automatic-writing poetry that I never remember to let cool long enough to polish. (I’m gonna fix that. It deserves more time and attention.)
Sometimes I’m blogging, which is another word for flinging your soul like Mardi Grad beads and hoping they land with the right person. (It? Which is the referent? See, I don’t even know right now and don’t care enough to figure it out. It’s 4:50 AM, HERBERT. DON’T GIVE ME ANY PERFECTIONISTIC SHIT. Except now I do care, but I’ve mentioned Herbert and I like to leave in mentions of that cranky SOB.) STET.
Where is Word Raccoon? I don’t feel her yet this morning. Please tell me she didn’t come and go with my mother’s illness and passing? I like my writing friend!
Regardless, I’m not feeling poetic today, although doubtless a few stubs will pop up, attempt to sprout. Time will tell. Not really interested in my novel right now. The comic book has proven a nonstarter at this point. The humorous essay is…not what I’m feeling. Screenplay I mentioned yesterday? Not a serious contender. Too much formatting, am I right?
Maybe I’ll bring the James novel with me, flip through that author’s preface again as if I’m on a fainting couch.
Maybe I’ll sit in a straight-backed chair, iced coffee in hand, and see what ghosts show up.
What am I saying? This isn’t Hamlet.
And I’m not sipping from anyone’s chalice without knowing what’s in it.
This grief is real, but so is my creative fire. Just banked over for now. Waiting. Gathering heat.
This just in: Word Raccoon is out of the shower and indicated the bathroom mirror where she has written the following…something??
Oh, Word Raccoon. Proceed.
Not really writing just means The icicles have built up on the roof Snow has matted and sagged the top of the house.
Grab a ladder, a shovel, And get to work.
What if I took my prose tools and crafted Poetry with them?
Possible? Would it mean more about prose Or less about poetry?
Is there a different peg board layout
In the garage
For the two genres’ tools?
Has anyone talked about the margin?
I understand that’s a factor. Not margarine. (But maybe I should make toast. With butter. Not that other. Gross.)
Is word play even poetry?
Is sound? Image? Narrative? Navel gazing?
A collision of ideas too hot, too disorienting, for prose?
Maybe it boils down to Who owns the mineral rights.
And dammit, I said I wasn’t going to Poem today.
Not really sure I have, though.
Word Raccoon, that, my darling word gobbler, is a word grab bag, not a poem, but it’s a start.
NOTE: WR spat out like three more prose poems today that are so rough and so improbable and so huh that IDK what to do with them. Maybe NOTHING. I think I’m gonna start a “don’t you dare let this horror show see the light of day” file once my mind is clearer.
The one about elote and a certain animated series? Oh WR, am I to be left with no dignity? WHAT IS WRONG WITH WRITING ABOUT PEONIES, MAYBE? THEY’RE GORGEOUS RIGHT NOW. MANET PAINTED THEM – ARE YOU BETTER THAN MANET, MY LITTLE JABBING WRITER FRIEND?
It’s late in the afternoon. I went to the café. I read James’s Author’s Preface in Portrait of a Lady again. It took two hours. I want to read it again soon. It’s a nourishing meal after days of dry cookies. It’s dense, but not that dense – my brain is just wandering that much, and I thought it deserve a thorough reading.
At the café, lovely people extended their condolences. The man with the dog named the same as my maternal grandmother came around the corner and mentioned the weather. That’s a midwestern “I’m sorry” if I’ve ever heard one, so soft and tender you almost wonder if you are right, but you know you are because when someone does something out of character after they have heard people talking with you about your loss, it’s not nothing.
People in doorways said sorry, people from the street. Nods that mean almost as much as a card.
You’re grateful for it all.
And you’re not sorry that you spent time with James. In fact, he mentioned other authors you adore, too, and now you have a summer reading list.
It was like sitting in his living room and relaxing on the sofa. I am fascinated with how he dissects the architecture of his book. (I LOVE looking at a book’s architecture, stripping it down to the bones. The bones are maybe the most interesting part. Is that weird to say?)
James seems like that rare person you’d just as soon listen to as talk at, or someone you’d be just as happy to sit quietly with. Yes, I can see me sitting with him some more in the coming days.
P.S. If the posts slow down a bit, assume I’ve either a) found a quiet pocket of peace or b) been buried alive under a pile of photo albums, prose and poetry fragments, and metaphorical toast. But that’s a big if.
Trigger warning: this post discusses my mother’s homegoing in detail, as well as my sometimes-nonsensical grief reactions. Read with care.
Not listening to anything today but the birds. Hubby is tending to the playlist for my mother’s funeral, so I think I’ll leave the music to him for now.
We lost my mom. She was ready; we were ready to see an end to her suffering. It’s an honor to sit with someone through those final hours, even when it hurts so much you want to climb out of your own skin.
It’s funny how the petty things drop away at times like these, and you wish you’d known love could feel this clean and uncomplicated.
I’m tired of crying. Tired of my throat aching. Tired of being angry. Tired of thanking kind, well-meaning people when I have no bandwidth.
The day before she passed, I took half a Benadryl. Then another. Then told my husband I could either be grumpy with him or mean to the public. He said, “Kill them all,” and meant it—metaphorically, of course.
I tried one of those meditation videos full of soothing profanity: “Eff Everything,” I think it was called. Spoiler: not mean enough. There are no words strong enough when your grief brain is chewing mourning pills.
Then I tried a regular meditation. When the honey-voiced guide said, “Breathe deeply,” I whispered, “Like my poor mother can’t?,” and had to shut it off. I knew I’d make it through the emotional wave, but I also thought I might need help swimming.
That night, while watching some idiotic movie, I told Barry it was either another Benadryl or a beer. He rushed to the fridge. Word Raccoon, my writing companion on my shoulders, has claws when she talks grief unfiltered, though she always regrets it afterwards.
Earlier, at lunch, the street corn arrived. I had asked about it, but the server brought one ear and handed it to Barry. He wanted some elote too, but I was the one inquiring, and without hesitating, I said, “My mother is dying. I’m taking the corn,” and I did, with a flourish. Barry got his ear later.
I wore a Mama shirt I normally loathe to the care facility—Midwestern cotton tragedy, gifted to me for a review and never before seen outside the house. But it felt right. “Mama” printed four times across my chest in varying patterns and shade, like I was cheering her on from the sidelines.
It didn’t help. I was furious that all my will and love couldn’t stop what was happening. I kept imagining grabbing her and sprinting down the tunnel back toward life. Like the end was negotiable.
A friend and I have met at my writing café a few times to discuss the construction of screenplays. I came up with an idea that he absolutely thinks I (maybe we) should run with it: you get so many people whose deaths you can veto, and you have to decide who to use them on.
I wish I had that veto power right now.
At Mom’s bedside, I dipped a toothette (sponge on a stick) into Coke Zero and stuck it in her mouth. She sucked on it like it was communion wine. A holy moment. She was so dry it hurt to watch. I apologized that it wasn’t Diet Pepsi — her favorite.
After a while, we went home to rest for a bit. Then came the call: death was likely a couple of hours away. We returned to be with her.
There are no comfortable chairs in a care facility. Just bad options. The recliner reeked. Who uses cloth furniture in a place like that? I brought pumpkin cinnamon Febreze, and suddenly it smelled like pumpkin cinnamon rolls. (Is that a thing? It should be.)
There was humor bedside. Music. Tears. Not enough air. Too much. Minor irritations. Bigger ones you swallowed because it wasn’t about you and everyone was just doing their best.
I rubbed lotion on her hand, knowing she was minutes from leaving us, and pulled her arm closer, as if I could keep her. I couldn’t bear to break physical contact.
Watching her breath slow was brutal. The spaces between stretched longer and longer. But I thought about her hours of labor to bring us children into the world, and I told her she was doing a good job. That she was almost finished.
We told her Dad had waited for her long enough on the other side. That we wouldn’t ask her to stay for us. (Hospice teaches you this. Sometimes your loved ones need permission.)
I called her “Mommy.” I called him “Daddy.” Like I was little again. I didn’t think about it until later. That’s the line I almost can’t write because it hurts. It was a big thing once in a World Lit class discussion I attended on Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons where the son calls his father Daddy and some of the students objected. It was a large class, so I didn’t speak up and say that’s the Southern way. I only lapse into it sometimes, but during something like this? For sure I use the diminutives.
After it all, we waited while they cleaned her up. Then, another goodbye. Then the funeral home came not in a hearse, but an SUV. Because “hearses upset people.” What nonsense. Death is not optional. It’s part of the deal. Ugly, inconvenient, and real.
Another goodbye as they took her away. I drifted towards our vehicle insisting I needed a sugary, icy Sprite. I rarely drink Sprite and the one I ended up with (it was past midnight, I think, or near) was no good but so what? Nothing was going to be any good right then and I knew it.
Earlier that day, I’d yelled to Barry that death is a design flaw. That we’re handed these luminous, improbable chances to live, only to have them crumble on some arbitrary Sunday. Like our lives are leases and we only get so many miles before we’re repo’ed.
I used my concert hall voice, not my indoors voice and I regret nothing. I wasn’t yelling at him, just yelling in general.
Then I yelled about a mysterious old man crotch smell in the house. It was probably the ripening bananas, and it wasn’t so bad; I just needed to scream at something.
When we’d first heard she was worsening a week ago, I said no thank you. I just did this with Tammy. I’m not doing it again. Pass.
Obviously, you don’t get to pass.
People ask what I need. I don’t know. Minute to minute, it changes. Yesterday, after a long nap, I asked Barry if he needed anything. That was new. It felt good to offer something back to someone who’d given me so much support in the days before.
Now, I want stillness. Solitude.
We have nearly a week ahead of smiling, nodding, hosting, thanking. I’m grateful for those who care. I am.
But I also intend to escape to the coffeehouse and sit on the porch as much as possible. Not to be fixed. Just heard. Or not. Just sipping. I find the most comfort in those who know how to be quiet with me. You ever notice that some people’s stillness is better than a conversation?
Or, better, if someone offers you something, anything, to think about besides your grief.
I want Sunday to come, the day after the funeral is scheduled, and Barry’s band to fill the house with noise so I can flee it guilt-free knowing he will be cared for in a way that heals him. I will find whatever bright corner to write in that I can in a town that rolls up its sidewalks on Sundays. (Cliché, don’t care.)
A parting thought: I’ve found that when death comes, the jagged edges drop away. What remains is just love. Just grace. The skewer comes out clean.
So here I am. Writing. Hurting. Healing. Doing what I do. If it’s self-indulgent, I hope you’ll understand. It’s how I process. I know it takes time.
Word Raccoon has been at my side. We have written poetry throughout; with one freakish one today called “Sphincter Circus” about circuitous relationships because that gal doesn’t know how to leave a tender moment alone.
Love your people. Let go of anything you can. Humaning can be messy, but it can also be beautiful. I just mean that in general. Witnessing death is a good time to consider how you want to live. (I think I’ve earned those somewhat sappy but sincere lines. Hey, I gave you old man crotch smell above to balance it out.)
And as I saw on a card once: Don’t hold onto a grudge. You know how slimy they are.
From Snorton’s Anthology of Dislocated Literary Composition (Abridged) Chronology of Writing While Elsewhere: An Addendum
1880: Henry James attempts to write The Portrait of a Lady in Florence, fails to ignore the view.
1881: James relocates to Venice, where writing remains difficult due to… Venice.
1920s: Hemingway allegedly writes about Michigan while drinking wine in Paris, proving geography is a mood.
2014: Author writes about Paris while sitting in a Starbucks in China. Does not see Paris anywhere but in her mind’s eye and possibly in her teacup.
2025: Word Raccoon demands drums during May existential crisis. Writing on the sunporch about love, repression, death, and James’s preface. Cookies involved. (Editor’s note: the cookies were oatmeal raisin. Of course they were.)
I’ve been re-reading The Portrait of a Lady, or attempting to, but I keep getting looped back into James’s utterly unhinged and relatable author’s preface.
It’s a mini master class in both writing in general and on the importance of physical place (as in the actual location of your precious body, not place as in setting) to writing.
(Word Raccoon says she would appreciate more glitter here, and frankly, perhaps James would, too. This book is very cool and sophisticated. Just hang on – I’m gonna get you all hot and bothered, Word Raccoon style, below. It will be worth the wait.)
James talks in the author’s preface to Lady about writing the novel in Florence and Venice, as he had his previous serialized novels, but he says that these places are such big characters they are themselves universes meant to be written about and so it was no good for him to stare out the window hoping to find an image when the entire city was a world-class art museum.
I’d go further and say places like that are dangerous for writing a novel set elsewhere unless you totally ignore windows or writing outdoors.
I remember writing about Paris in China, and there was…a disconnect. Especially since I was in a Starbucks at the time. (I also tried writing outdoors there, but, you know…air quality. Nothing like flecks of black soot on your face as you write about a child and her sheep.)
If you’ve read Hemingway’s excellent A Moveable Feast, you know he says it seems to him that “Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan.” I thought of that as we sat in the Luxembourg Garden eating lunch where he claimed to have “hand hunted” pigeons to eat. I wish I could’ve shared my crepe and red wine with him.
James isn’t quite saying the same thing about place, but it’s parallel.
And also, not enough people talk about where you choose to write can be nearly as important as what.
Like, when I write outdoors, my eyes and heart are on constant scan. The rhythm makes it into my writing. Squirrels? Their physical selves, their scampering. The cars that go back and forth. The time lapse stream of energy as people come and go with lattes in their hand.
Place affects what we write, what we can write.
At this moment I am writing on the sunporch waiting to go to the care facility where my mother is on hospice. My husband is mowing the lawn. My heart is both here and a thirty-minute ride away.
This post isn’t about place, not really, or my dear mother. Maybe you can tell me what it’s about while I mark time and begin despising cookies which, surprise, surprise, are not magical pills that let you forget what is happening.
I’m about to drop a poem below that will seem completely inappropriate and ill timed. For those who do not yet know Word Raccoon (or what it is to be a complex human even though you are one even if you refuse to acknowledge it): emotions, being human, the messiness of it all can coexist. No, must coexist. They just do.
You can get one of those trays for toddlers that separates the food: sliced strawberries here, hummus and pita wedges, there, but in the end, it’s all food.
I’m maddeningly distracted by James’s distraction by place. How did we get here? Forward, Word Raccoon!
Five Stars. Would Emotionally Obliterate Again.
I’m re-reading Portrait of a Lady and I have questions. Like, do James’s characters make eye contact when they make love?
It’s a fair question. Just how deep does the repression flow?
You have to take delight
(and a blow torch)
in watching a glacier
thaw
to patient your way through and yet, I’m still enthralled.
(That’s a half rhyme. That’s allowed, right?)
But could I bear to be so
close
to
all I want if his eyes are squeezed
tight?
P.S. It’s not indecent to write during these times, it’s necessary. And yes, James would probably faint seeing patient used as a verb. That’s how the Word Raccoon interacts with literature, though, makes it her own.
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