Archive for February, 2005

February 22nd, 2005

» quickie

Not much new here. Fern’s perked up. The poinsettia is still going strong, brash in the face of the changing season. Defiant.

Anyhow, I just wanted to say I probably won’t be updating at all for another week (not that I have been much anyway). Tomorrow (!) Katie is flying in, and Thursday we’re heading down through Iowa to visit Steph and Bren. Which I am gleefully anticipating. It feels like I’m back in school waiting for spring break. Wholly unable to concentrate.

February 19th, 2005

» ‘it’ll all click when the mortgage clears’

Today I am obsessed with Sideshow Oz and “Cells,” by The Servant.

I preordered the former today, and it was only many hours later that I realized I probably won’t actually get him for six to nine months, which is…astronomical. In the scheme of things. Staggering. An impossible amount of time to wait for my miniSeth with his Dingoes shirt. Oi.

That, too. I am obsessed today with the word ‘oi’.

And that is all.

February 16th, 2005

» my sailor

How much do I love my ipod?

So much that were I at home, I would take another stupid picture for you, for illustrative purposes. That’s right. Because there aren’t enough stupid pictures already. In this picture my hands would be reaaally far apart, and I would look earnest and stupid AND as impressed as you should be with the level of my love.

And you would see that my ipod looks like the Life of Pi version of this site, complete with Richard Parker all lazy in the boat which bears no resemblance to the actual boat in the book, save it contains one tiger and one boy. And is white? I don’t remember now. Was the boat white?

I spoiled page … umm … I spoiled something somewhere between pages seventy and one hundred for you. And I’m sorry.

February 14th, 2005

»

Oh how I love Neil Gaiman and Margaret Atwood.

Happy Valentine’s, my pretties.

February 10th, 2005

» ‘to sing you to sleep’

It’s been five years today. Writing this remembrance is always overwhelming, and has in the past largely been private. There are the odd moments through the year it slips in, bubbling up unexpectedly amidst some other tale, taking over. But this day, this month, is for grief I do not show.

He loved to sing, and not once do I open my own mouth for it without a pang, without a wish for his talent. Without wishing I could honor him that way.

Rachel, Rachel, I’ve been thinking, he would sing whenever he saw me. What a world it would be. Often it was just this first part, low and easy. Rachel, Rachel, I’ve been thinking.

On my uncle’s wedding day they stood together on the little stage before the dancefloor, my grandfather laughing and insistent, my uncle accomodating, drunk enough. Another bride. Another groom. Another sunny honeymoon.

As the cancer spread it pressed into the place in his brain that regulates speech and often he could not make the words come. It was terrible to see, his eyes frustrated, grown enormous in his increasingly gaunt face. All the thoughts he could not voice. His hatred of the picture charts. His now-quiet rage.

But he could still sing, and the nurses sang with him. They gave him notes to get him started and he would sing what he wanted, what he needed. The everyday things trapped in his head slipping past the tumor.

We sang at his funeral. Amazing Grace and the Battle Hymn and something else, I think. I remember my sister on my left leaning to me and saying He would want us to, and my voice wobbling and whispering through the tears. Fractured and ugly, but for him.