grieving, Jack, miscellany, movies, reflections, romance, sex

on, well, many things 

“I’m here to be me, which is taking a great deal longer than I had hoped.”—Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith


Thank you all for continuing to show much generosity via that Buy Me a Cuppa Joe? link down there at the bottom of the front page. It’s always special and a moment of grace to know not only that someone is listening as I shout out into the void but also that there is someone shouting back saying, “I’m here, too. And I hear you!” 


Speaking of which, I was able to bring my son to visit entirely thanks to donations from a friend in Chicago and readers of this blog. And I got to hear my son say, when asked if I deserved to be talked to disrespectfully, “no, but I’m doing it anyway.” We laughed and I think we’ll both remember the moment. It set the tone for the week, which has so far has had some hiccups (he’s very hard on himself and thinks I’m super mad at him when I’m not at all, like when he accidentally locked us out of the apartment—something I did last week—and was convinced he’d ruined everyone’s lives) but overall has been lighthearted and a worthwhile bonding experience. 


It’s that time of year again. In 19 days it’ll be seven years since Jack died. In less than six years I’ll be older than he was when he died. What can I say that hasn’t already been said, other than by now I’ve learned that there’s no replacing him, and there’s no use trying. 

I’ve also forgotten almost everything about him. If I didn’t have photographs, he might as well be a ghost. I can’t even remember what he felt like anymore, nor can I remember remembering. I often wonder what people did before pictures, before writing. I suppose they didn’t live very long then, so whatever grief occurred was short-lived, literally. 

Mine just goes on forever, in all directions. Which helps it both dissipate and seem infinite at the same time. Confusing is the least of its definitions. 


Sometimes I get the impression that I’m the only one who cares (or notices) that he’s gone. 


I’ve learned that I can’t think ahead. I keep wondering what I’m going to do on Saturday, whether the money from dog-sitting will hit my account in time to get a place to sleep. If not there’s always Penn Station. It’ll be too late to head to the shelter (the owner won’t come home until 11pm), and if the money isn’t there it just isn’t there. 

But Saturday is Saturday. And today is Tuesday. Tuesday? Not Saturday. Therefore: Not.  My. Problem. (Today.) 

So far that’s working ok. 

I’ll get back to you on Saturday as to whether it’s working.