I feel like driving fast. so does Vesta. We are sitting in traffic on the way to school and every time there is room I speed up and she says “oh yeah!”.
I feel like I need to find some order in this chaos. Make lists, that I lose or stop seeing after awhile if they are on my white board. Jenn says that while yes, my mind is crazy and mixed up so are my days, my schedule, my commitments, so write that shit down. And quit doing so much. My bank account agrees.
I ate my lunch at 10am and spilled it down the front of the white shirt I almost never wear anymore.
I spilled cottage cheese in a bag my ex left, all over my client files and computer and an avocado. I emptied it, started to clean it out and then threw the whole damn thing away. Even though it’s the perfect size for my files and computer.
I spilled the whole Britta onto the counter.
I decided I’d break the dishes I don’t want on the cement behind my house. I have three people coming over tomorrow to help pack. All three could use a good smashing of something besides their hearts. All four of us, really.
Tuesday night, I learned my ex lost his job. I still need his money. Terrible shit keeps happening to us. And we’re not even us anymore.
I had spent an hour packing between therapy and work and was angry at him the whole time. Because I’m not supposed to be doing this alone. Packing up all this shit and moving it by myself. I swear there was something in our vows about loading and unloading the car. Wasn’t there? There is some continued violation in me having to carry shit on my own, not even metaphorically.
Also, I miss Jenn. We’d be drinking midday, I’d put on Gloria Gaynor like I did when we cleaned her house in Colorado when we were 17, we’d fill boxes with my shit and she’d go on and on about new chapters and good timing. Which would be annoying but fine. And true. And she never put a silver lining on my dead kid so she can do it on this move. But she isn’t, because she moved away and we both feel like an important piece is missing. Not a limb or a kidney per se but a gall bladder or appendix. Something not essential but everything worked better when it was there.
I buried my kid three years ago today, I keep thinking that and then stop myself. I didn’t bury anyone. My kid is in tiny plastic bag in an ugly tin box on the top shelf of my coat closet. Someday, he’s going to be a diamond I wear around my neck. I’m going to send the handful of ashes to a service who will press him into a diamond. And Vesta can bury me with it around her neck or keep it with her. She misses him, too.
My parents stood up in front of the room and cried. My dad joined my mom and put his arm around his once-wife. I don’t know what they said but my mom held a doll from another child our extended family lost.
My husband stood in front of the room and cried and read the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. He handed it to me that afternoon after I’d gotten home from the hospital and the morphine had worn off and I said “You’re going to read this?” And he said yes and then he did. And he cried in front of everyone. I had never loved him more than in those moments.
My body ached. It had been torn open. My uterus and my perinium and I stood for hours in pain, greeting everyone and talking, accepting their condolences and sad eyes. The pitying eyes that were so glad it was me and not them. Danny’s friends from high school came in after I was seated in the front. They lit their candles and one by one came to hug me and said “don’t get up” so I sat there and let them bend over me. I was glad they came.
Almost weekly, I think to myself, “who would have imagined that at X many years, Y would be happening”. Yes. Who would have imagined that three years from the day I buried my son (there it is again. Where did it come from?) that I’d be barren and broken up and packing our shit to move because I don’t have enough money to stay. It’s awe-inspiring to survive something you were sure you wouldn’t. It’s hard to wrap your mind around it. Who would have imagined?
The poet Naomi Shihab Nye came to the school my sister-in-law works at. She told her about Harvey. So, Naomi Shihab Nye said she will hold him in her heart. So, Naomi Shihab Nye, who I have loved for 20 years and also forgotten about, is holding my son in her heart. My sister-in-law grieves damn near the same as I do. Nearly silently, nearly the same. She hugged me on this very day three years ago and I could feel her grief, how somehow she understood me in a way most others couldn’t.
I double booked massages today so I have to scramble.
All of the essential oils I am using on my clients have labels of shades of blue and orange. No significance. I just noticed.
I buried my kid three years ago today and all of these other things happened, too. Someday, the ashes that were his body will be a diamond around my neck. Someday, I will hold his stardust, diamond body in my hand and think, “who could have imagined…”