After

I thought going to the service would make things better, ease the cold dull pain inside.  Instead, it tore open a wide giant gash and poured the burning salt of reality into the wound.  My cheeks burn as that salt oozes from my body in tears.  My soul burns as that salt drips into a stalactite dagger of anger that I didn’t know I could have, that I become all the angrier for having.  For someone whose entire life was full of love and giving and perseverance, these are the wrong emotions to have, the wrong emotions to be left with, sadness and anger.  But they are here, and they are real.  And I do not know how to make them go away without distraction and time.

When are memories not enough?  When are they ever enough?  The best memories exist to be re-lived, and when they cannot be recreated, they must be retold.  I want to tell stories; I want to hear stories.  But how, and where, and who?  I do not know in what way to begin.

The stories I remember, the ones I could tell, I cannot tell them well.  They would quickly turn into inside jokes, and she would not like that.  She was all about inclusion, always about making sure no one was left out.  She passed that trait on to her children.  And, I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that.  I am going to miss her so much, but I am very glad the best parts of her live on in them and in everyone whose lives she touched.

She gave us the gift of her light, and more importantly, she showed us how to share our own.  Mine’s hiding under a bushel of anger and sadness right now.  She wouldn’t like that, but she’d understand.  And she’d probably tell me to light that bushel on fire and let the glow burn even brighter.

But I don't wanna say goodbye

It’s 1am.  I should be asleep.  But I’m not. My mind is busy, playing through memories.  Playing through memories that I don’t want to be old or forgotten, unable to be duplicated, unable to be replicated, replayed, relived.

As I’ve gotten older, I feel like death has become less real to me.  It should be the other way around, where death is more real than when I was child in a world where magic existed.  I think it’s because the people leaving are people I don’t see daily, or even regularly.  It’s easy to forget they’re not there, wherever they usually are, until you see someone or hear a voice or a laugh, and for a split second, you think it’s someone you know and love and care about.  And then you remember.  You remember it cannot be them, they are gone.  Or maybe it actually is them, in those moments, a fleeting, twinkling, dancing, laughing moment to say hello, to say “remember me?”, to say “remember me.”

I almost had one of those moments today.  On my plane.  A voice, a voice I almost knew.  But the news was still too raw to be caught in a foolish forgetful hope.  Yet that timber, that tone, while uttering some other words I didn’t hear, still said, “remember me.”  And now I lie here, awake in the dark, obeying the command, remembering.

It is that shining gleam in her eyes when her daughter was crowned Junior Miss that makes the tears flow hardest.  She was so very, very proud.  Always proud of her children, their achievements, her own children and those of us she’d welcomed in with open arms and southern hospitality.

It is her insistence, against her eleven-year old daughter’s attempts to assert “friend-girl” as a thing and three teenagers’ clear awkwardness, that it was so wonderful for her son to have his girlfriends over for dinner that brings choked-up giggles spilling from my throat, morphing into sobs and back to giggles again.  Sobs.  Giggles. Sobs.  Sobs.

It is knowing she’s cheering loudest and hardest from the stands, waving a pompom and hooting and hollering as we snap our horns down that makes me feel a warm giant hug though surrounded by thin air alone in my cold apartment. 

It is that broad, joyful smile that makes the corners of my mouth turn up to smile back even as my lip quivers and my heart crinkles into the deepest frown. 

It is plates of eggs and bacon, folding chairs on lawns, red pew cushions, and a big blue easy chair that unleash a booming, echoing, “so, what’s going on with you?” bouncing around inside my head, waiting for an answer. 

And it is realisticness compounded with a firm resolve that reminds me that within my memories of this wonderful woman lies a superhero’s cape—those who believe can do anything.  Even while acknowledging the mountains that need to be climbed along the way, the hurdles that need to be jumped, and the rivers that need to be crossed.  “Well, there may be a big mountain and eight lions on this path, but I think there’s a real possibility he can do this if he just...”  That was so often her attitude; it may be tough, but there's a way.  And of course, she always had plenty of input on what that way was, too.

It doesn’t matter that the station agent gave us a schedule and we’ve been standing on the platform watching the train come in; I’m still mad it arrived.  Mad it didn’t delay more.  Mad it was even on its way already.  It’s always too soon when people you love go, but sometimes, it really is too soon.

So. I’ll let the memories play, until life goes on enough to bring one of those twinkling moments.  And then, I will obey.  I will remember her.

Congratulations Lewin and new-Mrs. Lewin!

When all your friends have the same first name, you call by them by their last names. This works fine until they get married and suddenly there’s a new person in the group with the same last name.  And the new last name can’t really be called Mrs. last name because that’s the friend’s mom.  I’ll figure it out eventually .  In the meantime, big congratulations to one of my oldest and dearest friends and his new wife.

Bride and groom at the altar

Another beautiful Wisconsin wedding.  I think it even rivals Alfred’s in terms of perfection.   The ceremony was sweet, simple and short.  The bridal party was gigantic and stylish. (And I don’t mean gigantic in numbers; I mean gigantic in stature. There was an usher so tall he was nicknamed Tree, and he wasn’t the tallest person there.  Ah, Wisconsin.)  The reception was completely relaxed and everyone had a good time. The dance floor was never empty, even up to the last song at midnight.  And the DJ included the required wedding polka.

The Bridal party (for reference, the groom is 6’3”)

I loved the speeches, especially the one by the best man and the one by the groom’s sister.  Their speeches were completely different, each being very them, but both fabulous.  The bridal party’s grand entrance occurred sometime in the middle of the reception – which was nice from an I’m-hungry point of view – and they entered with silly glasses to Teach Me How to Dougie.  There was also a girls’ dance competition (for which I hid in the hallway) and a guys’ Carlton Dance Off.  The food was simple and delicious.

Cake cutting

The most entertaining part of the night happened after the reception had been going for some time.  The Best Man – who the groom and I have known more than 20 years since we all started playing trombone together in grade school – was sitting and talking with me and Mommy and Daddy and the Great Ecclestone.  We were lamenting the groom’s insistent attempts at match-making when a small blonde in a short dress bounced next to the Best Man. After confirming he was the person she was looking for, she jumped into his lap, “I heard you’re cute and single!”  Just as quickly, she bounded away to the dance floor.  We couldn’t hold our laughter.  The Best Man wasn’t long to follow to the dance floor.  What else could he do?

Mommy and the Best Man on the dance floor

Yes, it was a fabulous wedding and a very joyous day for all involved.  By the end of the night, the groom wanted to do it all again the next week because it was so much fun.

Congratulations Matt and Christy!