Easter 2012

April 7, 2012

Good Morning my Dear Sweet Girl—

Easter tomorrow.

1983.  I close my eyes and see you, your sister Erin, standing at the small round dining table I found at a garage sale. 

Both of you buzzing, anticipating multicolored jelly beans and a basket full of green fake cellophane grass with bits of chocolate nested in the sleek shimmery shreds .

A Betty Crocker white cake baking in the oven in two round 8 inch pans fills the house with vanilla and sugar scent.  Later we will make the bunny cake.  Now, we  dye the dozen white hardboiled eggs that sit in the middle of the table surrounded by mismatched cups, some with cracks, filled with translucent red, orange, blue, green dye. 

My thoughts are all over the place.

I cannot sit still.

I am afraid to just be with myself right now.

But that is where I need to be.

Quiet.  Taking in the whisper of air as it moves into my nostrils, I fill my chest with it, inflate.

Exhale.

Deflate.

Wait.

Come back to now.

This moment, when the only sounds are the whir of the computer processor, the steady hum of the refrigerator, the clock ticking—tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

The house creaks, groans. 

I sigh.

My dad is in the hospital.  A heart attack.  He waits for a transfer to another hospital, for the Plavix to leave his system so his platelets stick together again, the assignment of an operating room. 

Sisters, brothers, stories.  My family history is real.  It remembers me .  It gathers around my dad.

Dear Sherry,

On April 2, 2012 you notified us of your potential need to take family/medical leave due to care for a parent with a serious health condition.

This to inform you meet the eligibility requirements for taking FMLA and you have FMLA leave available.

Since last Sunday, I have been at one of three places, at home, at work, at the hospital.

I have long forgiven my father for my childhood, or lack of one.  Neither of us wants to confront it, discuss it in any great detail.  Any more than a paragraph here and there. 

I ask questions.  He fills in gaps. 

The stories I never told you.  If I did not speak of them, they would not be real.  The stories would not repeat themselves.

Over and over.

My stepmother made Cinderella’s look like Donna Reed.  My dad will not admit he knew. 

As I helped you and Erin each cradle a hard boiled egg on a teaspoon, slowly lower it in the colored liquid, wait for figments of color to imbue the hard white shell, the stories of my Easters past fluttered their pages inside me. 

With a clear wax crayon, my stepmother made me write Fat Ass, Trouble Maker, to identify which colored eggs were mine.  My sisters had their own identifiers.  Lazy, Stupid, Ugly. 

Deep breaths as you and Erin and I turn the eggs in their green, red, yellow, orange, blue, pink dye.  Wait for the perfect hue.  Lift the egg, hold it against the side of the cup as we tip the spoon, spilling color back into the cup.  The egg is placed to dry. 

There is nothing written on your eggs.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick. 

1961.  Easter.  I was 6, almost 7.  My sister Kathy would have been 5, Karen 4, Dale 3, Linda almost two.  My mother, 23 years old, was pregnant with baby number 6—who was not my dad’s.  She’d left him and we were living in High Point, a housing project in Seattle.  She—a single mom not ready for, not wanting motherhood. 

My father’s words—“The end always justifies the means.”

No.  It does not.

But I do not argue.

1961.  I woke early Easter Sunday.  I was old enough (a) to know it was Easter, and (b) to expect the Easter Bunny to have left 5 wicker baskets full of sugar treats, 5 chocolate bunnies.  I felt the brittle chocolate breaking as I brought my teeth down on its ears, tasted the cocoa—butter—sugar melt on my tongue, stick to the roof of my mouth.

I opened the bedroom door, walked down the hall toward the living room, it was barely light. 

There was nothing.  No Easter baskets.  No chocolate bunnies.

Surely there must be a mistake. 

I went in the kitchen. 

Nothing.

Maybe the Easter bunny was running late.  It was still early. 

If I went back to bed and was really quiet, there was still a chance he would come.

I laid in the bed I shared with Kathy.  Listened for my sisters and brother to wake up.  Everything had to be quiet.  Or the Easter Bunny would not come.

He had not made it to our house yet.

The house creaked. 

I was bathed in a sea of relief.  It was the Easter bunny.

Quietly, I made my way down the hall again.  Peeked around the corner.

Nothing.

Checked the kitchen.

Nothing.

I went back to my bed.  Grew anxious. 

How was I going to tell Kathy, Karen, Dale, Linda the Easter Bunny had not come yet? 

How was I going to keep them quiet until he made it to our house?

I piled our blankets in the bottom of the closet on top of the collection of dirty clothes mixed with clean.  Explained the situation.  Enforced silence, stillness.  Linda was the hardest to keep quiet.  She was wet and hungry.  I could not change her diaper.  I did not know what to feed her.

Shhhhhhh

If we are not quiet there will be no jelly beans, I call dibs on the black ones.  There will be no chocolate bunnies.

Where was my mom?

My dad was an ocean away, stationed in Hawaii.  Making another family.  Until my mother disappeared and the Red Cross brought him back to Washington to claim us—five of us.

“Your stepmother and I got together to do a job.  We each had children to raise.”

“You all turned out all right.”

“Dad, maybe.  But we are all fucked up in out own ways.”  I tell him. 

Linda is with me.  She shakes her head yes.

He measures his success by what we have accomplished.  Does he realize how much there was to overcome?

I know my story.  I come here to the hospital so he can tell me his.

I listen him.  Record him.  Take down notes.  Ask questions

He is my father.

I am his daughter.

I have forgiven him for all he thought he knew about parenting, for all the things he did not.

I wonder.

Without these stories, my father’s, my mother’s, and now mine, without understanding I, too, was a child, became a young woman, and then your mother—without knowing this history, will you forgive me for all I thought I knew about parenting, for all the things I did not.

Mostly, I thought love would be enough.

I thought I could make up for my childhood by giving you yours. 

Without a frame of reference, without me telling you about how I grew up, how could you know?

I am my father’s daughter. 

I start again from there. 

Happy Easter. 

Eat the ears first.

Love—Mom.

Moving

March 23, 2012.

Dear Andrea,

I am moving. 

It is hard to be still.

My house is mine again.  The  smell of muddy man boots, Carhart jeans, jackets are gone. The wet wood, the damaged molded parts have all been ripped out, thrown out, dried out, disinfected.  Wood has been replaced by slate.  Slate from India.  Tumbled slate, mosaic slate, slate pavers.  My bare feet caress the cool roughness of stone.

Dressed in an abeurgine colored silk negligee and matching robe, both trimmed in black lace I dance to the regular beat of Baba Mall as I unpack boxes, take my time.  Contemplate  substance, texture of everything collected.  Only I understand the full meaning of these items.  Someday, someone will inherit all of this.  Should I leave notes for them?  “I bought this collection of fabric dolls from a little shop in Tallin..”

You would know that. 

I take the mundane and turn it into something exquisite.  This experience of moving. 

Of music that touches me, rocks me elementally.

I bend to pick something up from the floor.  My necklace, 18k gold, your name in Arabic, thin as a sheet of paper, falls in my mouth.  I bite it gently.  I remember when you bought this.  Its history.

Yesterday I saw a ghost of you in WalMart. 

From the back, the way the girl stood at the counter, the way her pants were just a little too tight, her fleshy sides spilling out over the waistband, the color of her hair, the wave in it she tried to tame, the casually tense way she held herself.  I walked past her, holding my breath, listening for your voice.

I wanted her to be you.  I wanted to go up to her, wrap my arms around, bury my nose in her neck, whisper, “I love you”, kiss her cheek.

I was in the laundry soap aisle before I could breathe again.  But I did not cry.  I don’t count tearing up as crying anymore.

Rehanging pictures of you as a baby, resetting your baby shoes on their shelf, I feel the pull of your mouth, the movement of your tongue against my nipple hungry for nourishment.  Our eyes meet.  You smile. Milk pours out the side of your mouth. 

Your sister texted me today.  She is moving.  She has a box of used sharps that were yours.  Do I want them?

Not really. 

I tell her she can dispose of them.  Good luck on her move.

No reply.

Moving in.  Moving out.

Moving in again I keep only the important stuff. 

I arrange and rearrange. 

Nothing ever goes back the same way it was.  

I re create my space.  My self.     

Moving out.  Moving in.

I disinfect, polish to perfect shine, leave no smears.

Before I can move away, dust collects again, begins to settle. 

You are dust now.  Ashes. 

Alone beneath the blanket I tucked around you at night, the Easter Bunny I gave you when you were two, the five and dime tiara.

In my closet.  Hidden behind my suits and jackets.

I was a mother.

I am a mother.

Still.

This I cannot move in or out of.

I love you—Mom

Full Moon Rising

March 10, 2012

Friday night, as Steve and I left my house, making a right turn on

Linwood street

I gasped.  In front of us was a full moon climbing hills of sherbert clouds. 

“Stop.”  I demanded.

“What?” Steve asked looking in the rearview mirror and all around him for signs of impending collision.

“The moon.”  I told him, pointing straight ahead. 

“I can’t stop in the middle of the road.  Let’s find a better view point.” 

The rising moon played hide and seek with us as we drove down 2^nd Street, turned right on North Street, crossed the overpass leading to the long abandoned Olympia Brewery, turned right on the little side street leading to the entrance to I-5 North. 

We never found a better viewpoint.  We never stopped.

The moon stayed to the east of us, an ice ring rainbow encircling it. 

Since January 25 I have been a nomad.  Traveling from house to house with my toothbrush, a pillow, a change of clothes and Sadie.  The water damage to the house has been a phenomenon.  My stove sits in the middle of the kitchen floor that is waiting to be tiled next week.  My pots and pans, mixing bowls, cooking utensils are all in boxes.  My silverware and dishes are covered in sawdust.  The living room looks like a storage unit.

The only thing that remains intact is my sense of humor.  And even that is lost amidst the chaos sometimes. 

Steve has been studying the Indian tribes of Washington, Idaho and Oregon.  I sat down at a space cleared on my dining room table for the laptop computer and saw the home page for the Coeur d’Alene tribe.  I clicked on the Warrior Society tab and read about tribe members who joined the military services in WWII, tribal members who serve our country now.  I clicked on the tab Culture.

As I watched the moon rising, Steve driving my Subaru towards “our” other home (really his home) in Issaquah, I could not help but think of the tribe of Coeur d’Alene  Indians.  I mentioned this to Steve. 

The Homeland is still home. The place "where the old ones walked" includes almost 5,000,000 acres of what is now north Idaho, eastern Washington and western Montana. The "old ones" were extremely wealthy from an Indian perspective, with everything they needed close at hand. Unlike the tribes of the plains, the Coeur d'Alene's and their neighbors, the Spokane's, the Kootenai, the Kalispel, the bands of the Colville Confederated Tribes and the Kootenai-Salish, or Flatheads, were not nomadic. Coeur d'Alene Indian villages were established along the Coeur d'Alene, St. Joe, Clark Fork and Spokane Rivers. The homeland included numerous and permanent sites on the shores of Lake Coeur d'Alene, Lake Pend Orielle and Hayden Lake.

All ancient tribal trade routes and paths remain today. In fact, those very same routes are still used all across the country. Today, however, we call those tribal routes "Interstate highways."

The reservation now is smaller than it used to be.   Much smaller.  The website does not tell me how many acres, how much the tribe has lost.  Looking at the map, I understand.  There are not always words for loss.  It just is what it is.

“I wonder what the Old Ones thought when they saw a moon like this rising.”  I think out loud to Steve.  Because I am wondering. 

“Thought?” Steve queried.  “I think they watched the phases of the moon, saw it disappear a sliver at a time, waited for it to reappear again.  I think they felt the ebb and flow of forces beyond their control, listened to the movement of those forces, followed the course of rivers as they flowed away from and towards something bigger than themselves.  Turned their faces to a whispering breeze and found shelter from howling winds.”

I am reading Annie Dillard’s book, The Living—a old fashioned novel about the Pacific Northwest frontier.  Chapter One.  The first part of the book is about Ada’s loss of her son, Clare.  Three years old, Clare died after he fell from the wagon he was riding in and was run over by its wheels.

Children die year upon year.  Grief is invisible.

“The moon looks like a dilated pupil.  The pale white over the indigo sky looks like an iris—an iris ringed with dark red orange pigment.”  I tell Steve.

I am an “Old One”, a pioneer woman, a mother now who watches the moon rising on this Friday night—full, bright, ringed with an icy rainbow of color.

I try to pay attention to the ebb and flow of forces beyond my control, the way a river flows.  I turn my face toward a breeze and listen intently trying to discern what it is telling me.  I seek shelter from howling winds. 

I miss you.  There is no shelter from that.

Love you Andie—Mom

Obituaries

 

February 12, 2012    

Dear Andrea,

What can you tell me about death?  About dying?

This morning I read The Issaquah Press.  I skimmed through the news on the first page about free health screenings at the Health Fair yesterday, Senatorial support for same-sex marriage bill; looked at the color picture of Julie  Clegg, pet photographer on the first page of Community Section; noted Squak Mountain Nursery was having free seminars on pruning trees, planning roses and starting seedlings.

It wasn’t until I got to page B3 that anything really piqued my interest.  OBITUARIES.  There were three.  Marcella Louise Antonich-Layman known by family and friends as Marcy.  Marcella was your middle name.

She shared the obituary column with Richard Leander Ingertila and Laurel “Lolly” Anne Snedeker .  The story of each life summed up in 6 to 9 small paragraphs. 

I have read the obit Steve wrote for his wife.

I write you letters all day long on my heart.  I try to remember the genes you took from me.  Catalogue them.  Sum them up into neat small paragraphs.  A fitting obituary for you.

I contemplate death.  Everyone around me represents potential loss.  6-9 paragraphs in the obit section.

Steve read me something he saw on his Facebook last night.  It was a letter.  It read Dear Pessimist and Optimist, while you were arguing over whether the glass was half empty or if it was half full, I drank it.  Sincerely, the Opportunist.

Everyone around me represents a connection.  Those I knew before you died.  Those I have met after.

I could not write your obit.  I could not sum you up in 6 to 9 paragraphs.  Dean did that for me.  I have not read what he wrote, studied it like I am studying Marcy’s, Richard’s and Lolly’s.  After I saw your name under the heading, OBITUARIES­ nothing else would register.  The letters did not fit together to form words, sentences, paragraphs, anything I could comprehend.  All I could see were just black marks on a page.

Dean went out and bought a stack of The Olympian’s on the day it ran the picture and paragraphs of you.  He was irate.  The paper misspelled Lyme disease as Lime disease.  I tried to get him to stop his tirade—“fucking morons, imbeciles, what the hell is lime disease, people are going to think Andrea died of too many limes, too many margaritas.” 

I was crying, vibrating with all the pitches of sorrow wanting to escape from me.  “Please.”

“Just forget it.” 

“Leave it.”

“Fucking morons, imbeciles.  How could they get that wrong.  I specifically spelled it out for them.”  He flapped the paper and it made slapping, snapping noises that hurt my ears.  I was in so much pain it hurt to move from one minute to the next.

Jake intervened.  “Hey it could be worse.  I was watching this show and Aunt Mildred died.  They sent her nephew to the paper with her obituary.  On the way he read it.  Aunt Mildred was remembered as a devoted wife, loving mother, sister, grandmother and friend.  ‘Wait,’ the nephew thought, ‘they don’t acknowledge that she was also an aunt.’  When he got to the newspaper, he  put a comma after grandmother, deleted friend, put a comma in after friend and added ‘beloved aunt.’  The next day a family member brought a stack of newspapers over so everyone could read the obit.  They all sat there reading quietly until they got to the friend, and ‘beloved cunt.’

Maybe this morning I am looking for typographical errors. 

Though I did not realize at the time, Jake’s story taught me I could find something hysterically sad and hysterically funny in the same moment.  My first lesson, in death and dying.  A lesson I wake up with every morning, it follows me through my day.

I refrain from counting all my losses.  The ones I could see coming.  The ones I did not.

I am trying hard to focus on what I have.

Marcy will be remembered by all for her love of family, friends.  And laughter. She is survived by her husband, daughter, son, granddaughters.

Richard was a parachute jumper in the United States Navy.  He is survived by his loving wife Marie, son and grandchildren. 

Lolly was a Norwegian beauty.  She will be treasured for her love, kindness, elegance, wisdom, endless patience and strength, and will be dearly missed by all who knew and loved her.

What could anyone tell me about death, about dying? 

I am learning, even as I live.

I love you Andrea.

There are not enough pages, enough words for me to write an obit for you.  Ever.

Mom

Droid Astronomy

January 29, 2012

Good Sunday Morning Andrea—

A shear veil of rain surrounds Steve’s house.  The lake is full, overflowing, creating a small pond, its surface echoing falling raindrops. 

The trees, stripped of all pretenses, stand bare.  Broken limbs, some big around as my waist, lay everywhere, a testament to forces beyond my control.

Since you died I have been searching for order.  For a way to explain your death in a way that makes sense to me.  For a way to incorporate the incorporatable. 

I am giving up my search for order.

Surrendering it to forces beyond my control.

I do not need to understand, explain, rationalize, apologize .

I can just be.

Except your death surrounds me like the dome of stars I laid under last Sunday at the dark beach at Barking Sands.

Oh my Gosh—you would be so amazed at what you can do with a phone now.  You can take your I Phone, or your Droid—did you die before or after the I Phone or the Droid? I cannot remember. 

Anyway, there are apps for the I Phone, the Droid that you can download.  If you have that app, you point your phone at the light shining in the night sky and it will tell you the name of the planet or the star you are facing.  The map outlines constellations.  Names stars and planets.  I never have to stand on a dark night and wonder, what is that shining in the distance.  Now, I can know.

Knowledge is a choice.

Holding the phone up to the night sky, I am at the center of my universe.

I am one small speck on a slightly tilted turning globe of land and water. 

A satellite can track my existence.  My presence in  physical relation to everything else on this planet.

Every choice, every act, is significant. 

I start each day now, expecting nothing.  The anticipation of surprise propels me forward.  Enough, I am rewarded. 

Days run together, undefined.  I find myself sometimes in unexpected places.  I am changed when I become aware.

Like the pond rippled with raindrops, everything around me changes until it dissipates.

When I surrender, I am strongest.  Only then am I aware of all my weaknesses, those things I must protect.

The memories of you.

It is essential that I cry out. 

I am in the process of delivery.

Delivering myself from the weight of grief so I can cradle it in my arms. 

She who has gone before, my new friend, midwife’s me in my grief. 

We talk about you, her son, knowing everything the heart cannot speak and how delicious it is to wrap your names around our tongues like the first time we named you.  Barry.  Andrea.  We taste the vowels and consonants  sitting on the beach together sifting sand. 

Love, loss, memory. 

Shells, no bigger than a figment of my imagination, collected, will transport me back to this moment from some future point in time.

Last Sunday night Steve and I took our Droid’s, two pillows, beach towels and a blanket.  Barefooted, I followed him out to the shore.  We wanted to lay flat, explore the universe above us, around us as the day and tide retreated. 

On the bed we made on sand and lumps of vegetation, we held our phones above naming stars, constellations, planets.  Jupiter was following Venus who had just passed below the western horizon. 

I laid as perfectly still as I could, held my breath, opened my eyes as wide as I could, focused on nothing.  It was then I could see myself in the middle of a 360 degree circle –a horizon encircling me.  The darkness, punctuated with specks of light varying in intensity.

Each light has a name.  Its name has been spoken back to the first awareness of its meaningful existence.  A place to navigate from, to.  Passed from tongue to tongue in breath, in sound, in song, in kiss.

My birth sign, Gemini, is above us. 

I move my phone.  Find Mars.

Saturn.  Spica, the star.

I do not trust my eyes. 

Me, pressed against the earth by the centrifugal force of movement.  The earth spins on its axis.  The sky appears to be moving.

Directionally confused here, I cannot feel north, south, east, west.  I am at an intersection where earth meets water, meets air.  A cool breeze blows over me.

I count five falling stars.  Five falling stars for this woman born in the 5^th month of 1955. 

Five secret wishes only my heart knows. 

And you, Andrea--Saturn and the Spica.  Two ships, whose helms you stood at out at sea. 

At breakfast my friend Jean, her husband, tell me “Oh that was an ‘oh hi mom’.”

You are so much more than just a memory.

I see ripples of that everywhere.

Sadie says to tell you hi. 

I love you.  

Mom.

Back from Vacation

January 28, 2012

Hi Andrea,

Yes it has been awhile. 

Steve and his neighbors are out picking up tree limbs.  There is devastation from ice and snow and wind everywhere.  Last week, while the snow fell and ice covered trees breaking huge trunks and branches, froze pipes, left homes without power, Steve and I explored Kauai from the beach at Ke’e to Barking Sands.  Purposefully, I unplugged from phones, computers, televisions, newspapers.  I got lost in the pursuit of solitude and sun. 

I have not looked at the weather for Kauai, but I am certain the sun is shining there today.  The sand is pink speckled with miniscule bits of broken shells still sparkling from the receding tide, the dolphins are surfing the breaking waves, the shearwaters are diving for their daily meal, and a whale blows a plume--waves a pectoral fin, rolls over, then launches its massive body from the ocean, forms an arch and dives back in.  If I listen hard enough I can hear a rooster crowing.  A shama singing.  I hear the doves wings flutter as a tanned old man with long gray hair, held back in a ponytail sits in the sand throwing breadcrumbs in the air.

Today I spent the day with Lisa and Annalise.  Next Saturday is Annalise’s first birthday.  She has two little teeth right in the middle of her lower gums.  Her laughter opens doors in my heart that would rather stay closed.  Love is risk.

When Annalise polks her pudgy index finger in my mouth, I nibble it with my front teeth.  She giggles, pulls her finger back, puts it in my mouth again.  Then she teases me, holds her finger out, makes me come after it.  I let out a little growl. Annalise  laughs with all her being. 

Love is really all there is.

It is worth the risk.

In the end, it is all we can take with us.

………………………………………..

Last Monday night, my last night on Kauai, I slipped between cool sheets wearing nothing but Fig Leaf and Cassis lotion.  Outside, there was a breeze blowing towards the northwest--towards home.  It rattled the wood blinds as it entered the room.  Finding Steve and I curled up together, the breeze traveled the hills and valleys of our bodies.  

Back to back, I aligned by spine against Steve’s, pressed into the warmth of his sleeping body.  He did not stir.  I closed my eyes, let the sound of the outgoing tide, the eerie moan of the wedgetailed sheerwater escort me to the realm of sleep.

Tuesday morning, 6 a.m. my alarm went off for the first time in 10 days.  At noon, Alaska Airlines Flight 852 would speed down the  runway, lift in flight, travel the jet stream pushed to Sea-Tac by strong tailwinds.  After I hit the snooze button, buying five more minutes, I thought, “I could leave everything for this moment.”

The alarm rang again.  Steve stirred, rolled over, pressed his stomach into my back, tucked his knees in behind mine.

“Mmmmmm.”  He said.

I felt delicious, ripe from seven full days of sunshine.  I let out a small moan of pleasure as Steve ran his open palm over the rise of my hip.

“You have no jammies on.” 

“Mmmmmm.”  I answered.

“Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”  Steve whispered as he nuzzled his nose behind my left ear.

“Perfect.”  Because on this last morning, while the winter sun was still working its way over the southeast horizon 22 degrees from the Tropic of Cancer, a walk on the beach would be.  Perfect.

I wrapped myself in a pareo, dark blue with yellow flowers blooming on one edge.  I tied two ends criss-crossed around my neck, making it into a dress.

Hand in hand we quietly left the little cottage at the beach.  It was still dark, in front of us the planet Mars was the brightest light in the western sky leading to the place where vegetation stopped, beach began.  Right over us was Saturn with its pronounced and visible rings.  Just off to the side was the star Spica. 

Saturn and Spica.  USS Saturn and USS Spica.  I have t-shirts, baseball caps, from those two ships you served on as an able bodied seawoman.

We stopped at the picnic table, the last point before beach.  Facing the island Ni’hua, the channel where humpback whales spend winter days, where dolphins wait for the tide to change to feed in breaking waves, I turned my face toward Mars, navigated to your planet Saturn, star Spica, breathed deep. 

The wind tugged at the corners of my makeshift pareo dress.  Steve, behind me, encircled me in his arms.   

The ocean rises with a single tear. 

Crying dissolves unseen parts of me.  I taste the salt of ocean spray as it falls from my eyes, making its way to waves broken at the steep drop before shore, still moving across a polished sandy beach until worn out.

Yesterday I saw my tears pass through a humpback whale that waved a pectoral fin, then blew a plume of water.

Humbly, bare, beneath a piece of cloth tied with one knot behind my neck, I invoked a blessing from sky, ocean, sand.  From who ever, what ever, might be listening.

I turned to Steve.  Stood face to face with him under a sky still dark enough for stars and planets to show themselves as tiny specks of light.  Pulling apart the front of my makeshift dress, I exposed my most vulnerable self .

My breasts that fed you, my belly that carried you, the passage to your birth.

I am safe in a way I have never been with anyone. 

Steve pulled me close.  Burying my face in his neck, he and I danced together as the sun rose over his left shoulder. 

The stars and planets disappeared.

I accepted my blessing.

To know, to feel love, is worth the risk.

                                      Love you Andie—

                                    Mom

Kauai Calls

January 11, 2012

Hey Andrea,

Kauai calls. 

I hear her and I will be there soon.

In the meantime, this is a conversation I had with Steve via text messaging this evening:

Me:  “I have never traveled for ten days w just a day pack

and carry on .  This is a challenge.”

I have horse packed into the Maroon Belles Wilderness Area in Colorado; into the Bob Marshall Wilderness in Montana.  I have taken a dog to New York City for Westminster, twice.  I have gone to Finland, Russia, Sweden, Austria, the Czech Republic, Poland, Germany, Cleveland, Boston, Reno, Los Angeles, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, La Paz, Norfolk, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, and places I have since forgotten.  I have  never traveled light.  Traveling light requires planning, making choices.

Steve:  “Check Rick Steves’ website for suggestions.  Pack multi-

use articles and plan to wash them.  Four days socks & underwear max.  Can you wear a pair of hiking sneakers on the plane?  Bring nothing “just in case”.  A long pair of pants, a pair shorts.  You get the idea.”

Only four pairs of underwear max?  Only four pair?  I will close up my suitcase before he gets to count anything.

“Bring nothing ‘just in case’”. 

My whole suitcase is full of clothing and items “just in case.” 

Because you never know.   

Bring nothing “just in case”.  Is he kidding?  What if…How am I supposed to know what I want to wear next Tuesday, next Friday.  I have a hard time with what to wear one day at a time. 

Me:  “I totally have the idea.  Implementation of the concept is

the problem.  If goal is achieved you will have to recognize  what a major achievement this is for me.”

Steve:  “Congratulations on the effort.”

A second later.

Steve:  “Subaru gets 22mpg.”

The effort.  Steve has no idea.  This is the first major trip he and I have taken together.  Flying to Palm Springs a year ago last Christmas does not count.  I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Grandpa Veil had a stroke.  He was laying in the hospital, soon to be moved to hospice.   I hope he has found you, and grandma.

Rick Steves.  I Google “rick steves packing list”.  There is a separate packing list for women.  If you want you can compare it to the men’s list.  I am not so inclined.  What would be the point?

Apparently, when Rick first came up with his packing list, women complained.  It did not account for all their needs.

Which is why men should never be architects.  But that is an entirely different subject you and I shall discuss later.  Back to packing.

Me:  “Checked out Rick’s packing list.  He says I can bring two

pair of shorts.”

No reply. 

I need to account for all my needs.  And fit them all in a carry on and backpack. 

There are piles everywhere.  Shirts, shorts, bathing suits, slacks, skirts, dresses, different color sandals to match each outfit.

Snorkel gear, cameras, camera chargers, colored pencils, a blank notebook, something to read.

I have always carried more than I needed.  Wrestling with the weight of it lugging it from place to place.  Weighing me down.

Wait, that shirt with the palm tree is really cute.  I might want to wear that next Saturday.

I check Rick’s list.  4-5 shirts.  I already have 7.  That’s a compromise.  I am not taking 10—which is how many I wanted to bring.

The last time I went on vacation was the February after you died.  I flew to Miami, met with a tour group—Senior Cycling, and bicycled the Florida Keys from Key Largo to Key West.  On that trip I UPS’d my bicycle, brought a backpack, a carry on and a large suitcase weighing 50 lbs.  I had the most and the heaviest luggage of anyone on the trip.

Remember when I used to fly to Norfolk when you lived there?  Not only would I bring a carry on and a suitcase, but I would end up buying a suitcase at Marshall’s or Ross to carry all the clothes and other things I bought when you and I went shopping at the Outlet Mall and around Norfolk. 

You inherited the maximum amount of luggage gene from me.  I will never forget your tantrums every time you left home to meet a ship.  You could bring anything you wanted as long as it fit in your duffel and one other bag.  Your favorite pillow and down comforter competed for space with nail polish, eye shadow, strappy shoes and a little dress.  Then there were the work clothes.

I had no idea how much collected luggage you and I had until after you died.  We never traveled light.  Anywhere.

And now it is a requirement.  It is a test I must pass.  Traveling light.

Me:  Got everything in carry on and in backpack.

Everything I need.

                   Love You Andrea,

                   Mom