JanesJewels
Shiny_Rock
- Joined
- Sep 29, 2012
- Messages
- 248
I woke up at 4am missing you, and now it's almost 6. As you used to say, I can't lie there any longer.
Last time I wrote to you in the night, the floor lamp next to me started wobbling, so maybe you're here now, too.
December 31st approaches, the last day I saw you. You lived for another three months but I never laid eyes on you again. On Christmas Day you were in a lot of pain. It was the only Christmas of my life that you took no photos, didn't cook a whole turkey, and didn't send out your Christmas letter. And still, I didn't see it. I thought you had years. You'd been in pain in February 2013 and then made a great recovery. In October 2013 you went on a long weekend to the city, something you hadn't done in years, and despite all the bone cancer you were actually gardening, bending and stretching that was usually out of the question. It seemed the medicine had turned back time by at least five years.
But in the department store that holiday, you said you were going to look at the nightgowns on sale "for when I get sick." Well, that stopped me in my tracks. And still I didn't realize. "You've got years, Mom", I said.
And when we were all out in the car, you went to mail some letters. Dad and I watched you walk back to the car. "She's not getting any better, and time is marching on," he said. And still I didn't realize. He was right. Spookily portentous in the way that only Dad can be, but right.
Then your test results at the end of January were just dandy and you booked a cruise to Africa. You got worse in March but told me you had months. We planned to go to Margaret's house and get pizza. We said goodbye, I hung up the phone and you disappeared.
So, what would you think of us all now? N. continues her life's good works. Dad continues to go to his activities, and the house is pin-neat. I have done nothing this year except look after Dad, and my house looks like a bomb's hit it. I would like to get back to my hobbies, the gym, my friends and work, but I just can't seem to get there. I turned some work down today. Since you died, so unexpectedly, the world feels like walking through an empty house whose happy family have packed up and left.
I bought you a Christmas present. It's a Swarovski crystal rabbit holding out a bunch of flowers, your favorite blue ones. Remember how we used to love my beautiful childhood rabbit and play with him before bed? I am going to place the rabbit next to a photo of you, so he is holding out the flowers. The rabbit is me, Mom. Swarovski used to do some of those flowers in a crystal bunch and I was going to put them in your grave but they were discontinued. Since the interment was a fiasco, I couldn't have put them in the grave anyway, as it turns out. So the rabbit will offer the flowers to your photo instead. It's the best I can do. It probably sounds stupid, but the idea of flowers being permanently held out to a picture of you gives me comfort. It's like a sign of respect, especially since you and me had a thing for that childhood rabbit of mine. I only recently discovered how I got that rabbit. I knew the boys next door had given him to me, but I didn't know that it was because Dad had taken the oldest boy to the hospital when he cut himself badly, as the family had no car. The rabbit was a thank you, Dad says.
Tonight I'm thinking of the poem that we discovered in your favorite book, "The Shell Seekers." Well, I guess it's morning now. But let's read the poem again, for fun.
"September", by Louis Macniece.
September has come,
It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn,
Whose nature prefers trees without leaves,
And a fire in the fireplace.
So I gave her this month and the next,
Though the whole of my year should be hers,
Who has rendered so many of its days intolerable or perplexed,
But so many more so happy.
Who has left a scent on my life,
Who has left my walls dancing over and over with her shadows,
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls.
And all of London, littered with remembered kisses.
It's light outside. Where has the night gone? In remembrance of you. D xxxxxx
Last time I wrote to you in the night, the floor lamp next to me started wobbling, so maybe you're here now, too.
December 31st approaches, the last day I saw you. You lived for another three months but I never laid eyes on you again. On Christmas Day you were in a lot of pain. It was the only Christmas of my life that you took no photos, didn't cook a whole turkey, and didn't send out your Christmas letter. And still, I didn't see it. I thought you had years. You'd been in pain in February 2013 and then made a great recovery. In October 2013 you went on a long weekend to the city, something you hadn't done in years, and despite all the bone cancer you were actually gardening, bending and stretching that was usually out of the question. It seemed the medicine had turned back time by at least five years.
But in the department store that holiday, you said you were going to look at the nightgowns on sale "for when I get sick." Well, that stopped me in my tracks. And still I didn't realize. "You've got years, Mom", I said.
And when we were all out in the car, you went to mail some letters. Dad and I watched you walk back to the car. "She's not getting any better, and time is marching on," he said. And still I didn't realize. He was right. Spookily portentous in the way that only Dad can be, but right.
Then your test results at the end of January were just dandy and you booked a cruise to Africa. You got worse in March but told me you had months. We planned to go to Margaret's house and get pizza. We said goodbye, I hung up the phone and you disappeared.
So, what would you think of us all now? N. continues her life's good works. Dad continues to go to his activities, and the house is pin-neat. I have done nothing this year except look after Dad, and my house looks like a bomb's hit it. I would like to get back to my hobbies, the gym, my friends and work, but I just can't seem to get there. I turned some work down today. Since you died, so unexpectedly, the world feels like walking through an empty house whose happy family have packed up and left.
I bought you a Christmas present. It's a Swarovski crystal rabbit holding out a bunch of flowers, your favorite blue ones. Remember how we used to love my beautiful childhood rabbit and play with him before bed? I am going to place the rabbit next to a photo of you, so he is holding out the flowers. The rabbit is me, Mom. Swarovski used to do some of those flowers in a crystal bunch and I was going to put them in your grave but they were discontinued. Since the interment was a fiasco, I couldn't have put them in the grave anyway, as it turns out. So the rabbit will offer the flowers to your photo instead. It's the best I can do. It probably sounds stupid, but the idea of flowers being permanently held out to a picture of you gives me comfort. It's like a sign of respect, especially since you and me had a thing for that childhood rabbit of mine. I only recently discovered how I got that rabbit. I knew the boys next door had given him to me, but I didn't know that it was because Dad had taken the oldest boy to the hospital when he cut himself badly, as the family had no car. The rabbit was a thank you, Dad says.
Tonight I'm thinking of the poem that we discovered in your favorite book, "The Shell Seekers." Well, I guess it's morning now. But let's read the poem again, for fun.
"September", by Louis Macniece.
September has come,
It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn,
Whose nature prefers trees without leaves,
And a fire in the fireplace.
So I gave her this month and the next,
Though the whole of my year should be hers,
Who has rendered so many of its days intolerable or perplexed,
But so many more so happy.
Who has left a scent on my life,
Who has left my walls dancing over and over with her shadows,
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls.
And all of London, littered with remembered kisses.
It's light outside. Where has the night gone? In remembrance of you. D xxxxxx