Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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alone again, naturally I can't decide which is more difficult and lonely... the absence of family and the long distance between us? or the immediate aftermath and emotional fallout that follows a visit from home? I'm leaning toward the latter, at the moment. Probably because that's the reality I'm currently trapped in. I woke up early this morning, blinked the sleep out of my eyelashes and crept out of bed to sneak outside and have an early morning cuppa with my mom. But - even now, in our seperate realms - we're still having a tough time finding alone time... all I wanted was ten minutes of early morning sunshine, dew, birds and a hot cuppa as the background to glorious misery and self-pity while reading a couple of my mom's letters. A distant connection to her... her words etched forever into the recycled wood fibres of a card she picked out and mailed to me fifteen years ago. Words that came to her so easily, having no idea that each one of them would burn into my mind and bear the weight of all her love and memory in the early hours of a Sunday morning one weekend in June fifteen years after she scored them onto the surface of that paper in her beautiful, wispy hand. She had no clue that I would drink in every curve of the H's and D's ... that I would read and re-read her words forward, backward, and forward again and again until they ran together like poetry. That her sign-off would resonate and ping pong back and forth in my mind, and milk my heart until I could feel her fingers clutching all of my senses and calling all the moisture in my body together until it pools and burns in my eyes. "Love you so, and think of you every day." Maybe his presence here makes me miss her more than usual because they are connected and one in my mind. Maybe it's because he's lying next to another woman whose shape and likeness, just to make the pain more poignant, resembles hers to a point where sometimes I'm forced to do a double-take. Maybe I'm angry that she's here instead of my mom... gutted and angry that she was stolen... robbed from me - all of us - too soon. The fucking injustice of the entire siutation is too much sometimes, and I find myself bowing to it... letting in to the weight and burden of her absence and all the losses that it carries. But why not an injustice to us? We're no better than anyone else. Other people suffer all the time. I guess sometimes I feel as though she suffered enough for all of us - for generations of us - and the fact that she died on top of that suffering destroys any last small remnant of faith I may have let remain in 'god' or whatever. Anyway. I miss you. I miss my family. I miss the reality that I knew and understood only a couple short years ago. I miss your laugh... your voice. Your touch. Fuck it. No one wants to hear it. There's something about grief and grieving that I'd never known before... people want to be there when it's raw, to help absorb what they can to protect you, to listen and nod knowingly. To offer kind words when they don't know what to say... But there's a point when we have to shake free of everyone and walk it alone. No one wants to hear it anymore. They don't want to watch you wallow in grief and self-pity anymore. They're done listening. They're done nodding knowingly. They're done. And you're left alone with your heartache and misery. That's it. In the end, it's just you... alone, again. Naturally. |