Now Playing: The Great Remember by Steep Canyon Rangers
(You know that’s not my mug. Way too plain, LOL.)
Word Raccoon and I have been flirting with a cold. She insists we’ve dodged it, though I still sense some passive-aggressive sniffling. Last night, while we were curled up and theoretically resting, she sprang up from her seat and demanded we record “You Know, You’ve Been to Rome.”
Yes, the poem we shared months ago, but apparently she needed to hear it in our voice, with our porch-night rasp, the leaves blowing outside, and everything we were carrying in our chest at 9:44 p.m. or whenever the hell it was.
I want to say this: I kept this version of the poem because it’s the first, hot-dashed version. Now I see it as the tent, not the tabernacle. It’s housing the expanded poem I feel will come someday. It’s not here yet, but even as I read it, I felt the pull to revise. More sensory details. More clarity. More truth. More Raphael.
(Art that is buried doesn’t have to stay that way, that sort of thing.)
But that’s in the emotional poetry queue, tucked in the “not yet, not yet” zone, if that makes sense.
It will come.
Also, I’m too new a poet to know whether I’m supposed to explain choices like job instead of jobs, in my poem when I KNOW which is technically correct, or my waffling over like versus as.
I talk about it in the recording.
But it reminds me of something else: when someone asks how I’ve been, I always want to say good, even though I know it should be well.
When I say well, I hear a whisper: “Are you ashamed of your upbringing? Of your people? You know good is what we say.”
Reader, no one ever actually said that to me. It’s my own hesitation.
But still, good is what I say. Most days. If I say it in front of you and I know you know better, take it as a compliment, WR says.
That’s another poem, another time.
Anyway, Rome is part of my Look, I Built a Cathedral collection, which is in search of a home, although this poem is a relative newcomer to the collection. Once I wrote it, it was obvious to me (and WR) that it belonged in it, Dear Reader.
She also forgot the book of poetry essays we meant to bring. But no matter. An idea arrived anyway, shimmered like steam above the rim of our teacup, like a polite little ghost.
The work always finds us, if we dress to meet it.
Today, I’m two poems in. More content than titles. The introspective kind.
Unrelated: Three days until official Christmas music season begins.
And before I forget, we also saw an ad for Christmas trees at the local thrift shop. Now we want every single one. There’s a white one. There’s a flocked one. There’s probably a broken one that smells like forgotten pine dreams. We want them all. Someone should stop us.
So this is a post about resisting colds, rereading yourself out loud, and letting your raccoon heart get dressed for meaning, even when it’s mismatched.
Even when it’s a Tuesday.
Except wait. It’s Wednesday. Word Raccoon just giggled and said like it matters, Babe. It’s always Art O’Clock in here.
Word Raccoon, my writing persona, has news. The good kind.
My poem “So Much Depended” will be published in Moonstone Arts Center’s upcoming anthology Remembering Ezra Pound. We’re so excited!
I’ve been, like many others, transfixed by William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow,” that Imagist gem of a poem that you can’t unsee. That wheelbarrow. Those chickens.
I found myself thinking not just about the poem, but about the relationships that shaped it, the complicated, formative bond between Williams, Ezra Pound, and Marianne Moore. How literary friendships shape a writer’s voice.
(I know writing friendships have shaped mine.)
So I wrote my poem with all of that in mind and more. And then I saw the notice to submit to this anthology just before it closed. I figured it was a long shot, but WR lives for long shots, so we submitted it.
Word Raccoon and I are so happy it found such a good home. A little poem that depended on wheelbarrows, literary friendships, and comparing doctoring to being a mechanic, if you will. (I want so badly to make that parallel, but what would I say, mechanicing??)
(I have written two poems about WCW, but we only submitted one.)
There’s a virtual launch reading next Sunday (Nov. 2 at 2 PM ET), and I may or may not be reading at it, waiting to hear, but I’ll be there either way, cheering and sipping something cozy from a ceramic mug.
Word Raccoon will be on her best behavior. Probably. She will definitely be wearing earrings. You know the ones. (Unless she wears…well, you’ll see. Or not.)
Now back to yesterday. (Were we there? Who cares!)
We were asked to review a company’s pajamas. We said yes. They arrived yesterday, and we thought it would be lovely to throw on the pink and black comfies giving Doris Day.
I opened the package.
GREEN pajamas?
I would NEVER have ordered green pajamas. No freakin’ way. The bottoms were buffalo check black and green. The top, solid green. Like evergreen green. I don’t mind that for the holidays, but this was a random fall evening.
Wait, though. They’re shorts, so winter colors? Would have to be a warm winter.
I should pack them up and send them back with a complaint, not saying Que Sera, Sera to this trickery, but I just don’t think I have it in me. I assume it was a mistake, but whatever. #FirstWorldProblems
Besides, the holidays are coming. So fine, I guess.
Speaking of…I have twice ALMOST listened to Christmas music this week, but I made myself stop. No, not a note, not until AT LEAST November 1.
The coffee I had for breakfast today (I know I said I don’t like coffee, but reasons) was apple flavored and full of promise, but it feels like the most uncaffeinated coffee ever made.
A giant mug and a half in, and I’m still fighting sleep like a toddler. I think I’m catching the same cold Barry’s been nursing. Great…because that’s what we need right now.
Preventative Zicam taken (WR REFUSES to acknowledge that she does, indeed, have a congested nose), heater humming, we’re wrapped in blankets on the porch while listening to John Green talk about his current trip to the Philippines (I think?).
(Word Raccoon, hands on her hips, wants to know why people we know IRL don’t have video channels. Can I request that for the holidays, People I Love Reading and Riffing on Things, audio and/or video versions, Dear Reader?…Would it kill you to volunteer to read a classic for LibriVox?)
Last night I sat out here too, breaking my own rule by watching stupid YouTube videos instead of writing. This porch is supposed to be my productive space, but honestly, I was in the active grieving stage again and couldn’t make myself do anything but surf and watch and wondering how poor Charlotte Bronte felt when she lost her siblings. (I am incredibly thankful not to have lost all of mine, but two is two too many!)Â
And yes, HERBERT, I KNOW Bronte is supposed to have a diaeresis over it, but ask me if I care enough to do it right now?? Who’s going to go find that on my keyboard, HERBERT, you??
WR reminds me that we DID get our hair done yesterday after reading and writing several hours, so that was something.
So what that we can’t currently remember what we wrote? We do remember learning from the Ruefle book of essays that linguists do not know the origin of the word “fear”? Can that be right? We wrote about that, as well as other things that we do know.
We wrote in a journal for the first time in a while. Paper one. Big letters. My god, this medicine for my fingers better take effect soon. I think it’s supposed to take six to eight weeks. It’s been two. My handwriting looks like a kindergartener’s. (Insert laugh-cry or scream with frustration emoji, depending on the day.)
WR still wants to show the hair off, but the only runway I’m walking today is the one between the porch swing and a nap.
And maybe, MAYBE we will submit some poetry after lunch. I wish I could persuade her to eat something besides carbs. Maybe a nice salad?
Anyway, I’ll have to keep you posted on whether or not I’ll be reading on Sunday.
Now, can anyone tell me how to pronounce Passaic River, just in case?
Word Raccoon says she wants a “Start Over, But Make It All Hank Green” button on YouTube. Actually, no.
She wants a “Make It All Green Brothers” button.
Because YouTube is starving us. As if insomnia isn’t bad enough, it’s trying to cure it with:
Seventeen faux science videos a day and we know they’re faux because none of them feature Hank Green OR Neil deGrasse Tyson. (We don’t trust anyone else with the science. Kidding. Maybe.)
Family vloggers from that one particular state so dry on all fronts that I don’t know how they smile so damn much. Aren’t they dehydrated en masse? Also, why are they so creepy?
A creator who used to be thick and now thinks that gives her license to verbally slap cookies out of the hands of anyone over a size 8. Rude!
“Alarming New Ways You’re Failing at Skin Care” (I will never buy twenty products for my face, y’all. That’s BS.)
Ten dessert recipes to make with cottage cheese and none of them cheesecake, which would at least be closer than brownies. No! Just…no!
What we want in our YouTube feed is:
Hank Green explaining the microbiome like it’s sacred scripture, and John Green weeping over a gas station because it represents everything broken and still beautiful about America.
Why isn’t there a YouTube button labeled:
“Please Replace This Trash with the Green Brothers’ Tenderness, Curiosity, Intelligence, and Sometimes Juvenile Humor”
One press, and suddenly my feed would be full of:
Smart People Feeling Things
Hank Green vs. the Chaos of the Internet (and knitters. Oh, Hank…)
John Green Staring Into the Middle Distance While Holding a Copy of Leaves of Grass while his wife approaches him with a glass of water and his meds that he admits are sometimes difficult to take. Take the damn meds, John! Just do it.
No more YouTube videos like:
“Alpha Male tells you What Women Should Wear” (Rigggghhhttt.)
“How to Fix Your Life with a Daily Placenta Smoothie and 500 Squats” (If you don’t get how disgusting this is, I can’t help you.)
“Thrift Shop Finds” (I’m onboard for those. Especially blazed and glazed’s channel, but that highlights another issue: YouTube forgets to show me things I like. DID I SAY STOP SHOWING ME THOSE??)
Give us something like this (these do not exist, dear reader, just should):
“Let’s Talk About Death. But First: Turtles” (John.)
“Why that Viral Video is Wrong and I’m Sorry to Point this Out but not Really but Hey, They Were Asking to be Debunked” (Hank. And thank you!)
“The Thing About Infinite Jest and Mortality” (John. And BTW, why didn’t we all get it – it’s in the title, y’all…it’s in the effing title, g-d it!)
“Why Crying in Target Is Scientifically Justified” (Probably Hank. With either a flow chart or maybe Hank filming John wiping his eyes with a soft flannel shirt on a hanger and contemplating the beginning of fall as a metaphor for the end of youth.)
“This Gas Station Made Me Rethink Hope” (Definitely John. Partially covered above. If John ever shifts from writing to painting, a gas station is definitely on his list to paint. One he saw on a childhood road trip through Arizona that sold clay, unpainted turtles. His painting will probably eventually hang next to Nighthawks in the Art Institute.)
I’m really not asking for much, just:
A compendium of Hank’s complete footnotes whispered for sleeping purposes and atoms and bees and unhinged Wikipedia corrections and how he turned his cancer diagnosis and treatment into the opportunity to educate.
Although sorry, Hank, but your voice has too many peaks and valleys. Great for your excited videos, but I think John’s calmer tone is gonna have to do the reading.
John’s melancholic metaphors, his oddly specific obsessions with plague history and AFC Wimbledon. And both his love of Crown Hill Cemetery (me, too) and his gentle negging of Indiana. Which I will try not to resent him for.
Dear YouTube,
Please give us the Greenified Algorithm.
Let us start over. Give us videos we will actually enjoy.
Serve us a feed curated by the emotional range of two brothers who would absolutely return their shopping carts and then make a video about why that matters, though John would talk about how it’s the thoughtfulness to others and Hank would speak on the economics of returning them vs. not.
Please more:
“Hank Green Explains Why Your Emotions Are Scientifically Measurable and Also, Slime Mold Is Awesome. Here, Smell.” “John Green Reads a Poem While Crying Into a Mug of Tea, Then Auctions the Mug to Fund Tuberculosis Treatment in Five Countries.”
Let me learn something and feel something. Let me be entertained and inspired. Let me be…
Green-pilled. (Too much?)
Okay, there are other types of videos I’d enjoy too, not just the Brothers Wim, but WR is not in the mood to see her post shape shift further and oh yeah, that hair appointment has been rescheduled to today, so no time.
But if the Green brothers were to take up ASMR hair brushing, and IF the algorithm gods are listening, I mean….
Word Raccoon shuffled into the room this morning wearing yesterday’s eyeliner and carrying a mug of tea she didn’t make. She sat at the table like she was in a chapel and whispered, “It’s today.”
(The original link was being a little shy, but it’s fixed now. Thank you to anyone who tried to visit the poem earlier.)
It’s one of those poems I wrote months ago and then forgot how much I needed. But rereading it now, in the quiet aftermath of my sister’s death, I feel it in my bones.
The god in this poem is not booming or dazzling or demanding. She’s tired. She sits beside you, eyes closed. She offers a drink and asks for your witness.
And that’s the whole thing.
When I wrote it, I was thinking about how exhausting it must be to be seen as divine. How even god must ache beneath all that expectation. How maybe what sanctifies a moment isn’t strength, but stillness. Not thunder, but shared silence.
“Mutual Mass” is part of my poetry collection-in-progress, Look, I Built a Cathedral, which is currently seeking a home.
This one’s special to me. Not dramatic, not flashy. Just the holiness of quietness. The miracle of sitting beside someone without needing them to fix anything. Just… being.
I blame myself. Or, okay, maybe Word Raccoon. Probably her.
I knew we were spending the night at the hotel adjacent to the event last night. I knew WR and I would need caffeine the next morning. And yet, contrary to other trips, I did not pack a single tea bag. Nary a Coke Zero. I told myself instead that I would figure it out this morning.
The first hour or so after Word Raccoon and I were awake today, we were fine. We scrolled, we read, whatever.
Then the “I need caffeine” headache came drifting in like fog. We had agreed to brunch. There would be coffee at brunch. WHEN WAS BRUNCH TO BE?
We had hoped to sleep in. We hadn’t.
We never do anymore.
Barry slept on.
No brunch until he was awake.
WR and I thought of getting dressed and locating a vending machine.
We thought of going downstairs and snagging a cup of coffee pre-brunch.
My head ached so badly by then that I couldn’t remember how to use the terrible in-room coffee maker, though the last time I stayed in a hotel with this exact same kind I did it just fine.
WR chattered at me: “Remember how you always say you don’t think you have something, but if you look, “yesterday you” usually prepped, you just forgot?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I did this time.”
“Look. Just check,” she said.
I rolled my eyes and my fingers swept the zipper pouch in the suitcase.
“Wait…wait…what is this?”
It was a tea bag. I rushed to read it in the light to see if, please God, it had caffeine in it.
“Earl Grey!”
WR danced a jig while I made a cup of tea.
Here’s the truth:
I always prefer tea to coffee. I don’t even like coffee. The idea of coffee? Yes. The titles are fun: Americano, macchiato, cappuccino, Lavender Bee Buzz or whatever, and make me feel like a worldly sophisticate. (Ha! I am well traveled and, I’d like to think, reasonably well educated, but I have actively worked against being “sophisticated.” That smacks of pretension, and the pretentious cannot be artists. Not open-hearted, full-throated artists.)
The jolt of coffee is unmatched. So I drink it. But it’s murky. It’s thick.
It leaves a film. It’s like having to strain oil in your mouth to get to liquid.
It gets on my nerves, literally and metaphorically.
I am, at heart, a tea girl.
Simple black tea.
Unglamorous orange pekoe.
I wouldn’t kick Lipton out of my cup.
Occasionally the Earl himself, Mr. Grey, when we’re feeling fancy. But I’d make him wear a waistcoat.
Herbal when we’re trying to live without caffeine or sleep within a few hours.
At coffeeshops, however, I sometimes find myself ordering coffee because tea gets complicated with them.
First, they seldom have tea with caffeine. Hey, if I’m going to have caffeine, it needs to be reliable, right?
Their tea is usually gross. I despise cloves,the not-so-secret ingredient in most chai. Mint tea (which every place seems to have) may smell refreshing but it tastes like you’ve squeezed the juice out of boiled spinach right into a cup. Yum.
Lemon tea can be fine, but it can also be laced with licorice. No thank you!
And then there’s ginger tea, which can either be mild or take-all-of-the-lining-out-of-your-throat strong.
Forget about the flowered nonsense. Flowers are for sniffing and staring at, not for drinking. You could always steam your face over a bowl of it, though.
Sometimes they give you a tea bag in a paper cup, no saucer, no stirring stick, and then you have to pry the lid back off to add sweetener, after you locate a stirrer. Then after it steeps, you need to find a spot for the tea bag. See above.
It’s a PITA.
I have on occasion brought my own tea bags to coffeeshops. Maybe that’s what I need to do again. (I’d pay for tea, of course, but I’d just use my own tea bag.)
Iced tea is usually a safer choice.
Today, I was grateful for that tea bag in the suitcase, though I had to end up heating the water in the microwave. (Not ideal, but at least I’m resourceful.)
Since it was the only tea bag tucked into the suitcase (Drema, you couldn’t have added a few?), I even attempted to make a second cup with it. Desperate times and all.
Brunch, by the way, was possibly tasty. Although why I ordered chicken and waffles, I don’t know. Waffles are great. Chicken is fine. But together? Why do we pretend that’s a match? Chicken’s flavor profile isn’t strong enough for waffles. It’s like bland and bland. One bland? Fine. Two bland(s)? Nope.
Even the honey butter does not tie the two together enough.
I didn’t even think to ask for a waffle a la cart.
Turns out, I lost my appetite midmeal anyway.
You know, my posts should come with tone shift warnings. Maybe I should color code the different sections.
TONE SHIFT
Anyway…brunch talk turned to my sister. (Last night during the show I did end up crying during a song about Moses or something. But I was quiet enough to feel I could keep to my seat. Whew. I also laughed quite a bit, too. Am I a monster?)
I am thankful that at brunch we were sitting at a window table and that my hair is long enough to strategically hide my face. I know grieving is natural. But I don’t want to make others uncomfortable, and I don’t want to answer questions when I’m just trying to breathe.
Word Raccoon stood beside my chair with a pack of Kleenex, ready to run off anyone who wouldn’t take the hint.
The chicken and waffles were sadly neglected.
After, we planned to make a stop.
Let me say that I do not enjoy shopping at a certain discount store so frequently, but it’s across the way from the comic book shop, and I’d much rather shop there than stare mindlessly at comic books along with a certain comic book aficionado. Sorry. Some comics are fine. But in general, they’re just not my jam.
I shopped, but my heart doesn’t want anything right now. WR led me up and down aisles, picking up earrings (her favorite items), holding them up to the light.
“See these coral flowers? It could be summer all year round.”
I took them from her hand and put them back.
She tried to convince me to buy several other pairs. I didn’t want any.
She tried on these really well made, gold-plated bracelets.
“You know we rarely wear gold,” I said.
Sweaters?
No. Not snuggly enough.
Makeup?
From here? I don’t think so.
Purses?
Is that pleather?
Shoes?
Stop it!
I still had time to kill, so I wandered back to the inexpensive, kitschy art.
I had been thinking about my sister, Cher the whole time. Little things like, she would’ve liked those pj’s, or, when was the last time we’d gone shopping? So my heart was aching.
In the art section, I saw a terribly tacky guinea pig painting. It was clutching a toilet paper roll.
I have no idea why, but I laugh-cried and held it to my chest.
I didn’t buy it. But I wish I had a real guinea pig.
Then I spied a painting of a raccoon. A bartending raccoon.
Word Raccoon had that thing in the cart before I could say no.
“Fine,” I said, “But only if I can paint earrings on it.”
Any other day, I would’ve said no. It’s pretty hideous. See? I’m going to have to hide this in my writing room. Clearly this was grief bought.
There were all of these other paintings of Santa. He seemed so warm, you know? That counts for something, and I wanted to hug Santa.
I know I will survive this.
That’s the thing: humans are assholes, because we can love someone, but we can also survive their loss. We can lose multiple people we love, and yet we grieve and move on eventually. Because we must.
I told my son the other day that humans are much stronger than we think.
I know it’s necessary, surviving a loss. I know it’s natural. But it also sucks.
So I strolled through the art section today, overwhelmed by the circus of colors.
And then I saw the art supplies.
Oh, fuck.
Why hadn’t I bought Cher more art supplies? (I bought her lots.) Why hadn’t I convinced her to keep drawing, painting, whatever might stave off the pain?
WHY DIDN’T ART SAVE HER? WHY CAN’T IT SAVE EVERYONE?
I broke down, sobbing from aisle to aisle like an idiot, trying to breathe through it. One poor shopper left an aisle I was crying in. I don’t blame him.
The mugs. With filled eyes, I fixated on the mugs, wanting every one of them for a moment. Together, the colorful mugs seemed like a Christmas tree full of color, and I almost filled the cart with them. I wanted to do something absurd.
When I was able to focus on them, really see them, there wasn’t a single one I wanted. They were all poorly painted and badly molded. A Christmas tree with the dabs of paint beside, not on, the raised ornaments on the tree. A birthday cake shaped mug. What would I do with that?
I went down the spice aisle, picked up caramel sugar, some mango pepper. IDk what mango pepper tastes like, what to do with it, but at that moment, it seemed important I get it.
I’ve never bought caramel sugar before. But they both seemed like must haves.
I had a statement prepared in case anyone asked what was wrong: “I had a loss last week. I’ll be fine. I’m just tender,” in case I broke down again.
Then I ran into the huge tins of Christmas cookies on the shelf. One found its way into the cart.
Eventually, we went home.
Once there, I try using the heater on the porch so I can still write out here, though I miss the sun.
It works. It’s not hot, but warm enough.
Maybe I’ll have to bring my Happy Light out here on sunless days. (There’s supposed to be sun tomorrow. Yay!)
I can be on the porch longer this season. Thank god.
The tears will lessen. The ache will soften. It just takes time. And I don’t want to forget her. I just want to accept that she’s gone, but also remember that she was here.
That’s it. I have no words of wisdom, nothing profound to say today. No cute stories. Opposite. I’m just on the porch. I’m writing through this. I’m writing. I’m still here.
When we bought these tickets months ago, I said something like, “I know it’s an extravagance, but who knows? We might need a good laugh when the time comes around.”
I meant because of politics. Because of the slow, relentless dismantling of democracy. Because of the hate and the cruelty in our country right now that I don’t talk about much, but I feel very much.
Because sometimes, humor feels like the only thing left that might save us.
What I didn’t know then was how personal that need for laughter would become. I didn’t know my baby sister would be gone.
I didn’t know I’d be anticipating dressing for a comedy show with a lump in my throat and that hollow, echoing ache in my chest, the one that says, She’s really gone.
Last night was rough. I know it’s been a week now but my god, it’s only been a week.
As I tried to sleep last night, the words began coming, and before I knew it, I had several halting poems written on my phone. Some comforting, some that just made the ache worse. But at least it’s progress, getting the creative words back.
Cherokee asked me what I wanted as a gift from her last Christmas. We don’t (didn’t, dammit, Drema; note the shift, it will always be past tense now; get used to it) always give one another gifts, but I had ordered her some clothes and she wanted to reciprocate with something. Knowing money was tight for her, knowing she had begun writing poetry, I said “Just write me a poem.”
Oh reader, she did.
I can’t read it again right now. I can’t share it right now.
It meant more to me than anything else she could’ve given me.
This wasn’t supposed to be that post. I wouldn’t blame you if you can’t read it. But I have to get it out, love.
Next topic. Because I cannot…
Remember how I said yesterday that my dress is silver? Silver?? When I went to haul it out of the closet where I put it weeks ago, I realized it’s blue. Of course it is! I remember now.
It’s blue and I love it.
It’s blue and it fits. (It might be a tiny bit big.)
It’s blue and it’s actually too light for the weather.
It’s blue and I will have to wear a shawl to cover its straps.
I don’t care.
It’s the most beautiful blue, sapphire, and it’s pleated and it moves.
And I love it.
As promised, the stadium bag followup.
Walmart’s version (the pink) arrived about half an hour before Amazon’s. So I have two choices! I’m going to wait until closer to time to choose for sure, but since I hate them both (because vinyl), it should be an easy choice. The gold, I think, wins by a slim margin.
Also, I noticed too late that the bag that my travel toiletries set comes in is about the same as one of these bags, just without a strap. I rolled my eyes. If I had thought of it, I’d have just used it. (Thankfully the bags were only around $10 each and I will use them as supplementary pouches for my computer bag. I wanted some clear pouches anyway. I’m always hunting for my lipstick.)
Tonight, I will be wearing grief shoes. What I mean is, I’m not even going to pretend to wear something stylish and/or uncomfortable on my feet.
I will plan to retreat to the lounge if needed midshow. I won’t ask more of myself than I can handle. I won’t ruin anyone else’s good time.
Friend, I worry that I won’t be a very good date tonight. Poor Barry.
But I keep showing up.
And that is all we can do, even when we’re feeling gutted.
Word Raccoon and I have a race going on over here today.
Context incoming.
We have an event coming up this weekend, and the reminder the venue sent out said you might want to carry a clear bag to speed up security.
Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.
I used to have a clear purse in the ’90s when they were first trendy. Mine was pink, small, with a metal handle, or you could use the long strap. I loved it, but I was always careful what I put in it.
The first time we went to hear Brian Wilson in Ann Arbor, I was first in line and wasn’t expecting to get frisked at such a small venue. It weirded me out to have my (not clear) purse and pockets patted down. I complained about it the whole half hour we waited for the show to start. I just felt violated.
To prevent that, I often don’t carry a bag with me if I can avoid it, like if I have pockets. But the tickets to this event are on my phone, and I don’t want to transfer them over to hub’s phone (what a pain), so I will need my phone. Also, I’d like a compact, a lipstick… you see my dilemma?
So I decided to order a clear stadium bag; I might need it again someday, anyway. I wish I had ordered it earlier, but I didn’t, so here we are. Amazon can handle my request. I mean, they can get anything to you ASAP, right? Right?
I ordered a bag because they said, “No problem, you’ll get that tomorrow.”
Do you remember that whole system-wide glitch from a couple of days ago?
I did not get that “tomorrow.” Today is now the day after tomorrow, and I need the bag pronto.
Last night, realizing that tomorrow was not coming (stay with me; it’s a vibe), I ordered a second bag from Walmart. (I know, I know, T.E.E. and all that, but hey, I NEED A STADIUM BAG and they deliver in our area!)
Amazon delivery is included in our Prime membership. Cool.
Walmart’s is… not. It was going to be a modest charge, like $5.99, since my order was under $35, but I don’t like to pay unnecessary charges. So I added on some things I wanted/needed anyway—conditioner, nail polish, nail polish remover, some makeup remover pads. You know… little things I had to keep adding to get the total over $35.
They promised: IT WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE TOMORROW. WE PINKIE SWEAR.
I don’t usually double book my dates, but this time? I did. Let’s see who gets here first.
This morning, a text: “Britanniiiiii” will deliver your items by 10:45 a.m.
I’m like, noted. I will get dressed. By the time I received the notice that the items had arrived, I saw Ms. B driving away. I opened the screen door.
The package was WAY too small to hold my purse.
Dammit!
I carried the package inside, checked my order online.
Right. Two packages. The second’s coming “by 10 pm tonight.” Uh-huh. We all know that means the next notice you’ll receive is: “Oops! Your package is running late. You’ll get it tomorrow.”
Except TOMORROW NEVER COMES!
Okay, wait. It does, just a day too late.
I NEED THAT BAG TOMORROW, Brittanniiiiiiiii, DO YOU HEAR ME? TOMORROW OR IT’S USELESS TO ME!
Unless… Amazon?
But first, let me finish this timeline.
I opened the Walmart package. Inside: the conditioner (Anyone else get nervous trying a new conditioner? Same. But we’ll see. Don’t tell my stylist. She’ll be disappointed that I didn’t buy her magic serum, but I don’t like the scent or, frankly, the price.) and the nail polish.
Now, the nail polish is the brand recommended by Kendra Adachi, the Lazy Genius herself (Olive & June, if you care). I make it a rule not to be influenced by others unless I really, really trust them. But she made a great case for this brand last year, and I’ve tried it since. It has to be fast-drying because I have zero patience for sitting idly, and this is.
And last year, when things were just wild, I needed her suggestion: Choose ONE color and stick with it for a season. It was brilliant. I actually used up the entire bottle in like four months. Not kidding. That may be the only time I’ve ever finished a bottle.
I do have other colors now, but needing a quick item to order, I thought that would be a great choice: new nail polish.
One of the choices was this gorgeous pink called Prom. I took a screenshot, asked Stanley, “Okay, is this too young for me?”
Stanley, my flattering online PA, said, “Of course not. It looks just like the kind of nail polish a poet would wear.”
Naturally, I ordered it.
Word Raccoon bared her teeth and asked why I didn’t consult her. Because, darling, I am not up to you just now. You are too loud and this event does not require combat boots and jagged lipstick, okay? You would’ve snarled at pink.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate this color. But it’s at least a shade or two darker than I expected. It almost feels like it has a bit of brown in it, and if you know me, you know that’s a no for my skin.
Do I think it was the age fairies saving me from my bubblegum dreams? Probably. I should probably be thankful. But honestly, I’m a little miffed. I wanted to wear this with my silver dress (which I haven’t even tried on yet, egads).
Hey, I’m doing the best that I can over here right now, okay?? Forgive me if a dress has not been my top priority. Just be glad I am out of bed and dressed.
On to Amazon.
They are currently claiming that the bag I ordered from them (which has gold detailing—so IDK if it’ll go with my dress at all, but hey, I’ll convince it with jewelry if need be) will be here this afternoon.
Which usually means “I’m right on top of that!” Which gets downgraded to “Oops, yeah… about that.”
I know they’re doing the best they can. And I know this is a first world problem of the highest order. And I normally do not give a good goddamn when my orders come in.
But there are tickets. There is a dinner reservation. I need one of these bags, or I will have to suffer the humiliation of having my purse rifled through and my taste in lipstick silently judged. Or I will have to ask my husband to stuff his pockets (because women rarely have pockets, remember, and I know my dress does not) with the flotsam and jetsam I might need.
Actually, he and I have already had this conversation.
“I can just hold your phone. What else would you need?”
What… else… would I… Sir, we have been married for almost 35 years and you have the audacity, first of all, to think I would hand over my phone for an entire evening to anyone else when that is my poetry machine and secondly, that you don’t know by heart all the things I need that I am constantly forgetting?
He is in dangerous territory here, folks.
Here is a short list of what else I might need:
Cough drops
Pain reliever
Breath mints
Antacids (for him, mind you)
Safety pins
Kleenex
A single (unused, of course) Band-Aid
Hand lotion
Cash (because you never know)
Coins (because I’m still haunted by my mother’s voice: “Always carry a quarter, just in case…” for phone calls)
Lip balm
Lipstick
A compact with a mirror and powder in it (good for both touching up and spying behind you, if you’re inquisitive)
Hair implements (pins, barrettes, hair ties)
A small rollerball perfume, preferably vanilla (No brush or comb, because that’s no casual thing with this abundance of hair I’ve got going on)
And yes, my phone will go in it.
And furthermore, Sir, you will likely ask for one or more of these items throughout the night, so I must keep my purse within reach.
What more would I…? Get outta here with that. LOL. (I’ve probably forgotten a few items, too. Like, I won’t have an emergency snack in it because the venue forbids it. But usually? Yeah, I’ve got that in there, too. Because a hangry Drema is not to be spoken to.)
Word Raccoon, for the record, insists I also pack a pen and a blank receipt to write a poem on, just in case. She’s not wrong. I probably will.
One of the bags, as I mentioned, has gold detailing. The other, pink. Two wildly different moods of me ordered them, am I right?
Word Raccoon is rooting for the pink one, obviously. She says the gold one is fine, but it looks like it might try to explain jazz to her uninvited.
So here’s hoping Amazon gets on it, or Walmart. I’ve never done this before, this head-to-head delivery.
I’ll let you know which wins and which I end up using.
If neither does? I may have to crowdsource the locals and ask who has one. I can think of a couple of people I’m pretty sure would.
Not that I make a habit of that, either.
Right now, WR says she doesn’t really care which shows up, as long as lunch does. Which probably means I should feed her.
Content warning: drug use, grief, bad dinner choices
Yesterday I went to a public event. Two women asked about my sister because they’d seen the obituary. It made it feel more real. It was comforting and also exhausting.
(Isn’t it interesting how some people’s way of just sitting with you, their presence, their small talk that is never small to you comforts you so much more than others, though the others did nothing wrong and had the best of intentions?)
I enjoyed the event, genuinely, but when I got home, I had to sit in silence on my bed for a while. No TV. No music. Just… sitting.
Dinner was supposed to be simple. Chicken sandwiches. The chicken was already cooked; I just had to dress the sandwiches. I told my husband I couldn’t do it. I might be able to get myself a bowl of cereal, I said, but not make dinner.
The man has already made delicious, homemade chicken pot pie twice this week for us. (He generally cooks a couple of times a year, and I am always grateful.)
I wasn’t hinting for him to do more. I just…couldn’t get up. Except… after sitting a bit longer, I managed to get up and make us both sandwiches. He would’ve done it if I had asked. I just didn’t want to ask him to do something else.
That may not sound like a victory, making sandwiches. But some days, that’s all you’ve got.
The anthology with my poem arrived. It’s a beautiful volume, out just in time for fall and I feel honored to have my work appear in it. My piece almost didn’t make it in because an email from the editor got buried in my spam folder, but I found it just in time.
I was afraid my poem might not be sugary enough for them until I saw the word “papercut” in the title, which honestly feels hilariously apt for one vein of my poetry.
Maybe I should take the time to share a better photo of it, but I can’t be arsed to. Not today. Go find it on Amazon if you want a beauty shot, dear heart.
My poem is called “Casting Spells on Scarecrows.”
I have more to say about my youngest sister. And I likely will from time to time for a while. People look at someone like Cher who struggled and maybe all they see is someone weak, someone who made bad choices. They don’t ask why she needed something to numb the pain. They don’t wonder what she was trying to escape.
They see the irrational moments, the mess, the damage, and they flatten the person down to just those fragments the way you might a “bad” character in a bad novel. They forget the rest.
But my sister was loyal. She nursed our father when he was dying, wouldn’t let anyone else but my mother near him. That meant grueling hours of sitting up with him and even more grueling tasks. Hospice care, when they were finally needed, offered to hire her after seeing her in action.
After he passed, I gave her a thank-you card, and a jewelry box with a freshwater pearl bracelet in it, and you’d have thought I gave her a million dollars when it was just a “thank you” for doing those things that I know were soul splitting. I honestly don’t know if I could’ve done what she did.
Likewise, my brother did tons of coordinating for my mother’s last days, taking my mom to the doctor, cooking for her, buying her special treats, etc. and even resigned from his job to take over her care, all HUGE and I owe him major thanks. He’s the best.
But my youngest sister did the bulk of the physical care, from what I understand, when she was up to it. That’s not easy stuff.
There was so much more to my sister. My heart can’t share it all now, but just the broad strokes to say that society has it wrong when they only see the diseased parts of someone.
Even though I forgot to see all sides of her sometimes, I’m ashamed to say.
I guess that’s being human, but I regret now that my patience didn’t span that far.
I’m in that space where everything feels a little raw, a little uncertain.
I’m in that “Here I am, toasting a bagel. My sister will never have another bagel,” stage.
There are fun weekend plans on the agenda, but I feel guilty doing anything for entertainment. (Still going; it will likely do me good.)
At the family gathering this past Sunday, I said, “I want to tell you all something: I love you. I love you. I love you.” They all looked at me, and then most of them said it back. (I give the teen boys a pass, though at least one did say it.)
That was the most beautiful moment. I turned to my cousin and said, “Because you don’t know when you won’t have a chance to say it again.” And she said, “That’s right.”
It would haunt me if I lost someone I loved and they didn’t know how deeply I cared. Loss has made me louder about that. If you don’t know I love you, then you’re not listening.
(The squirrels must miss me. Since it’s too cold to be on the porch, I’m at the dining room table, and I hear them hurling themselves back and forth across the carport, as if to entertain me.)
I added some dirty dishes to the dishwasher this morning. Moved some empty boxes. I plan to go to the gym this afternoon.
I might finally assemble Word Raccoon’s pink office chair that was delivered some time ago now.
There are some poetry deadlines I’m eyeing, but I’m not feeling compelled to submit, or write anything but this today.
Grief takes time to work through. I know that. It happens to everyone, loss, eventually, if you let yourself love someone. It’s the entrance price for loving.
And still, some days, all you do is you make a sandwich. You write a blog post. You get through. That’s enough.
Last night I stayed up way too late submitting poetry. I needed to do something I didn’t have to focus too hard on, and it felt a little like normal life.
Something exciting happened on the writing front over the past few days, but obviously it’s been hard to let it register. Five of my most wild, wooly poems have been accepted by Enola’s Magazine! They’re coming out in November, and I am so pleased.
These poems are absolutely the result of fever dreams, and their titles will probably explain them ahead of time:
An Accidental Wedding Song for Misfits
A Love Song Screamed into a Tornado
Ms. Havisham’s Aria
Boomerang
Lose the Tie
I’m so, so happy that they have found the perfect home: it’s a dark academia journal, so…am I right? Don’t those poems just scream that? Thank you, Enola’s Magazine!
On another publishing note, my poem “Casting Spells on Scarecrows,” is out now. I should be receiving my copy of the anthology in the mail tomorrow, so I’ll share a photo of it then and more info. This is kind of me making a note to myself over here. More then.
While I was sending out poetry last night, I submitted to some places that just seemed perfect for a couple of what I would call my favorite “strays.” I mean, there’s one poem I adore, the one I was struck with, but I have only sent it out maybe twice. It’s not an easy fit. But I still can’t read it without shaking.
Also, while I was going back through my poems, I realized I sent some out a few months ago that I need to go back and withdraw because those poems have now found a home. My “ready to submit” folder is getting thinner. My “published’ folder is getting fuller. I have TONS of poems in my “in progress,” but I need to take the time to really polish some of them.
I’m not writing again yet, not more than a few lines, some ideas. Even in grief, I have a fear of being treacly. She deserves better than that.
Today, the family will gather for a low-effort meal, just to be together. I said if I get ambitious, I might make a salad. It doesn’t sound difficult, and yet it might be too much. Early grief hits you in unexpected ways. I know this dance now.
It’s rainy, so rainy. I wanted to sit on the porch yesterday evening but when I asked Stanley if it was safe during the thunderstorm, of course he told me absolutely not, so I sulkily sat at the dining room table. But I’m back outside today.
Stupid Stanley.
I’m answering condolence messages ten, fifteen at a time and feeling terribly guilty that it’s taking me so long. But after a few, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll get to it. (And I truly do appreciate the sympathy.)
TBH, I don’t want to do anything right now. I’m sitting here, listening to the gutters drip. My buddy the black squirrel just came by to complain about the wet leaves, a free range cat is sniffing a plant outdoors, and my neighbor just made one of his dozen daily trips to his shop.
Last night, just as the storms were whipping up, I noticed a neighbor’s son on his scooter going back and forth, back and forth in the street. I was overly concerned, more so than usual because life seems so fragile right now.
“If I see lightning, I’m going to message his mother,” I threatened. I kept going to the window to see if he’d gone in yet. Just before it started storming in earnest, I discovered he’d apparently sought shelter. (Now that I think about it, I don’t know if the lightning ever came or not; I became engrossed in my work indoors.) Â
Last night, a moth began dancing confusedly around the dining room light fixture. It went around and around, dipping, up and down, like it was lost.
I’m not someone who believes a lot in the woo woo. I don’t entertain the supernatural much at all, but I had to wonder. I’ve heard that moths symbolize death or the departed.
I began talking to the moth the way I had so many other family members when they were leaving, in case it was my sister: “You’re okay, you’re okay, we’ll be fine. We’ll miss you, but you can go on now. Rest.”Â
I told it that it wasn’t lost, that it wasn’t stuck, it could go forward. I told it (her?) that her son is fine, will be fine. He’s 18 and will graduate this year. He lives with my brother, who treats him like a son.
I told the moth that it wasn’t lost, it just needed to go up. “Fly upwards,” I said. “Fly upwards.”Â
I said I loved it. Her.
The thing that haunts me most is that she was alone when she died. Did she know she was dying? Did she have any idea that she was on her way out of this world? Was she in pain?
Did she call out for help, for comfort?
I wish I could have been with her when they took her away, but I didn’t know in time to get there. It haunts me that I couldn’t be sure that they were gentle with her body, that they treated her with respect, though I’m sure they did. They’ve been the ones who have transported so many of our loved ones and they’ve always been so kind.Â
They took her directly for an autopsy, if I understand correctly. I didn’t get to say goodbye.Â
When that’s through, she will be cremated. I want to call everyone I can, ask where she is right now. I won’t.
I’m not blaming anyone that I wasn’t there. It was so unexpected, it was such a shock. There were others to consider. Those who made decisions did the best they could considering the shock. They were waiting for someone to come to me, get to me, tell me in person, because they didn’t want me to hear it over the phone. Again, I am not blaming anyone.
For someone with an imagination, you might not think so, but it’s difficult to feel as if I’ve said a proper goodbye when I haven’t been able to touch her hand, stroke her face. To slide something small and discreet into the casket (that she won’t have now) that would mean something to only the two of us.
When you love an addict, you love them knowing you have no idea how long you will have them. It makes you pull away in subtle ways, in subconscious ways, though you don’t mean to. The disease often changes their personality and leads to mental health issues that the addict doesn’t/won’t recognize. They are never again the person they used to be.
You learn to love at a distance.
The logical part of me knows I did not fail her. I tried. Everyone tried, some harder than I did, I’m ashamed to say. But sometimes I think, maybe I should’ve gone to the house and picked her up while she was still with us (god, she was small) and tossed her in the vehicle and said You’re going back to rehab. End of discussion. But I know enough about addiction (I wish I didn’t) to know that doesn’t work and if it does, it doesn’t last.Â
And BTW, if they don’t go willingly, rehab won’t accept them.
The thing is, you can’t make someone do what’s best for them. Not even if you love them. Especially not then. The human spirit doesn’t bend that way, it snaps. It rebels. And it will walk straight into the fire just to prove it still has a choice.
The moth disappeared after I talked to it, which would sound like I was right in thinking it was her asking for help. But it came back again a few minutes later, so obviously it was just a confused insect that was drawn to the light.
But I felt better for having said what I had.
I don’t pretend to know what the afterlife is like, but whatever it brings, I hope it brings those who go to it peace. Or, at the very least, oblivion, which seems more likely and is maybe the same thing.
I will be saying goodbye to her in stages, on repeat. When I hugged her son the day she died and told him I loved him, I was saying goodbye to her. When I wrote her obituary. When I stalked her Facebook page grabbing screenshots of her poetry and artwork, in case it gets archived as it sometimes does when they somehow hear someone has passed. When I went out to the cemetery ahead of time.
I’ve asked for one physical item to remember her by, one of her pieces of artwork to frame. But that’s not where the real memories reside, do they?
dremadrudge.com 
You must be logged in to post a comment.