Just yesterday evening, I grabbed the camera to capture the vivid yellow of the forsythia hit by the bright, just-before-sunset light.
And what did I wake up to this morning?
All that and a high wind warning until 7 pm, to boot.
If you’re thinking, “Claudia is not a happy camper” you’re right. She is not.
I’m going outside soon to get the heavy, wet snow off my plants. More of this crap is expected tomorrow, with temps in the thirties for the next three days.
• We watched the NCAA tournament last night. While we were in Florida, my brother-in-law asked us to join in a friendly bracket tournament that occurs every year among his family members. Meredith is doing better than the rest of us, but I did pick Villanova, so I’m grinning a bit this morning. Don picked Oklahoma. I need say no more.
• I spent several hours researching the pronunciation of certain Russian names and much to my dismay, I kept hearing something different each time I visited a new site. My next door neighbor is Russian, so I think I’m going to have to ask her to verify some things. I finally gave in, turned off the computer, and went to the grocery store (again) to stock up on some food.
• Grief: While on the way to the grocery store, I drove past our local animal hospital (I drive by it every time I head out of our little town.) This time, however, I was struck by the memory of Scout’s last hours and I lost it. I remembered Don carrying her out to the car where she stayed on the back seat without moving, I remembered sitting in the car while Don made sure they were ready for us, petting her and telling her I loved her and that soon she would be out of pain.
As I drove down the road, tears rolling down my face, it was as if it had just happened. I asked her to visit me, to let me know she is okay. I keep hoping she will. Then, when I came home and unloaded the groceries, I started to tell Don what had happened and I couldn’t stop sobbing. I cried for the loss of my mother, my father, and Scout. I often replay those last hours in the hospital with my father, hear his voice, the sound of his breath changing as I watched him leave us.
I do the same thing with Scout’s last hours. It’s as if those two profound and heartbreaking experiences within three months of each other cycle in an endless loop in my brain. It’s such a lonely feeling, this loss of both my parents and my beloved little girl. Crying is cathartic, I know, and I’m glad I let go yesterday, though I was absolutely drained when it ended.
The truth is, it’s almost impossible for me to find enthusiasm for much of anything these days, though I have bursts of it at times. I play at enthusiasm, I act ‘as if’ – but grief takes a hold and doesn’t let go for a long time. It really never lets go, it just changes and morphs as one learns to move forward.
I miss talking to my mom. I miss talking to my dad. I miss talking to my little girl.
One day, right before we left for Florida, I was struck by something. I had a way of talking to my pets, not really a ‘baby’ voice, but definitely a different kind of voice where I used funny, made-up words and sounds and lots of nicknames, singing little songs that I made up on the spot. In that moment, I worried that I might forget what I said to Scout in our countless interactions during the day, every day, for sixteen years. So I grabbed my phone and recorded them.
I don’t want to forget them, you see. It was our own little language. She put up with it, of course; she indulged me. For that I am very grateful.
Ah, well.
• First bunny sighting: an adorable little bunny dining on grass right outside the kitchen window.
I wonder if we’ll have baby groundhogs again this year?
The winner of a copy of Beneath Still Waters is Maureen. Maureen, I’ve sent you an email. Please send me your mailing address and congratulations!
Happy Sunday.
