Radar, radar detector, detector blocker; a natural progression, a learned response.
Just as in sorrow, tears withheld too long escape in sobs. And when it’s learned the tipoff to the action, that hollow feeling in the chest around the heart too tight to draw a deeper breath, the tears flow silent without warning, without fanfare or announcement, only there to run their course down cheeks too weak to smile or laugh again.
I’ve shared with you some bits and pieces of my father’s life, my own, unashamed of love and admiration. But this, this rawness of emotion is too much to hang out in the atmosphere for wanderers of weblogs who never need to know him, or the emptiness he’s left inside of me. Those who have, I’m sure, typed “spinning” in the search box and ended here, I feel a need to protect my father and myself from these who couldn’t care.
The scourge of writing is that once the voice is found, it won’t be tamed. In flesh and blood I’ve shuttered up my lips that even opened for a moment for a sip of morning coffee are seen by the pain that’s hiding deep within to rush out in a wail, a keening sound that only morning greyness of the sky itself is large enough to accept until the one whom I can cling to hurries home to hold me close.
And so, I thank you here for your kind words of sympathy and comfort, and individually have done so in more private notes. But this, for now, is all I have the strength to let out in the open. Please know your words and empathy mean so very much to me, but I must hide this side that’s bleeding till it heals.
Thank you, I appreciate you all.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Susan, I’m sorry for your loss. I only recently rediscovered my own father….so I can understand the gravity of losing someone so dear.
My heart goes out to you. Be good to yourself.
Dear Susan, I can’t begin to know what you’re going through at the loss of a wonderful father but my thoughts and prayers are with you.
Susan, I am so sorry for your loss … thinking of you and hoping you are holding up. So much loss for you this year Susan.
Ah, Susan. Then, I’m watching chimney swifts working the evening and wishing I had more flowers, and wishing I’d lived here long enough to have trees older than I, and layers and layers of living and dead blossoms on the ground and rooms of fragrance to wrap myself in. And, for whatever it’s worth, I’ll hold you out there with these swifts, waiting for the bats, I’ll hold you out there with a thought of brusied rose petals and vermillion aphids and hot cement and long pine needles teaching soft hard sensuality to feet. I’ll hold a thought of you against the taupe, hawk grey fur of a cottontail, a blessing–eating clover. I’ll hold a thought of you, and your father, while I’m hanging laundry, in the basement, afraid of censure, the sweet smell wishing it was my Danish grandmother and her kitchen at five a.m., Downy, and it’s not, but there’s a sweetness still. And now, with the pot screeching at me, and too-late coffee waiting to be made, I don’t know what to say, but say what? Not again, not for another. You know you will be in my thoughts and prayers. Today is my father’s birthday, were he alive and all that, he would be sixty-five. The feelings are alive like half forgotten embers surprising bare feet in the sand. It sucks, and I have to smile at unbidden thoughts of him, glad for the visits.
I’m thinking of you. Love him, remember him, however it takes you, but don’t forget yourself. Remember your needs are valid whatever they are. Holler at me if you wish via e-mail, and all that.
Owen
Insert a Trite Metaphor About a Corral
This roundup covers the period from 23 July to 29 July 2004
Insert a Trite Metaphor About a Corral
This roundup covers the period from 23 July to 29 July 2004
Insert a Trite Metaphor About a Corral
This roundup covers the period from 23 July to 29 July 2004