On Seeing The Picture I am to the far right, standing with my hands behind me, a half-smile concealing the emptiness. The rest of the nuclear family is contained to my left, my mother's back to me, her beehive hairdo and smart green pantsuit turned toward the others, the siblings...my father. The blue Impala rests itself on the pavement behind us, so many journeys already taken, so few left to take. The smell of Salems fills my senses. It is raining now, so hard my mother sticks her head out the side window in a desperate attempt to give my father direction. My sister is crying in the front seat: I am not sure why. Perhaps to ask the rain to stop or maybe with the hope that the parents will make a truce, call it quits on the fighting, get us safely somewhere. I can't remember. There are too many can't remembers in these long days since my children grew up and left home. The house too quiet, the impulse to make a loud noise which gets reduced to an occasional throwing up of arms, a long stream of expletives that can't mask the loneliness nor the sense of wonder. These posts of pictures from long ago stir things up:a blender full of hate and love, retreat and fight: a container full of mortality.

On Seeing The Picture

On Seeing The Picture I am to the far right, standing with my hands behind me, a half-smile concealing the emptiness. The rest of the nuclear family is contained to my left, my mother's back to me, her beehive hairdo and smart green pantsuit turned toward the others, the siblings...my father. The blue Impala rests itself on the pavement behind us, so many journeys already taken, so few left to take. The smell of Salems fills my senses. It is raining now, so hard my mother sticks her head out the side window in s desperate attempt to give my father direction. My sister is crying in the front seat: I am not sure why. Perhaps to ask the rain to stop or maybe with the hope that the parents will make a truce, call it quits on the fighting, get us safely somewhere. I can't remember. There are too many can't remembers in these long days since my children grew up and left home. The house too quiet, the impulse to make a loud noise which gets reduced to an occasional throwing up of arms,a long stream of expletives that can't mask the loneliness nor the sense of wonder. These posts of pictures from long ago stir things up:a blender full of hate and love, retreat and fight: the brim full of mortality.

Ashes

Ashes to Ashes Scattered across the world, one ocean to the next, what is left of this vibrant young boy is now floating with flotsam and jetsam. His bones burned into eternity enter the waters, dropped from baggies lovingly and with great grief from friends and extended family. In one picture, a man on a pier opens a bag. The look on his face could be labeled: determination, sadness, responsibility. So, there you are, now, my nephew, though your face still looks out at me from the pictures I have on the refrigerator, the ones your mother posts online, the ones I just see in my mind. I do not know where you might be now. I want to believe what I want to believe. You are well, playing, kicking a soccer ball, meeting a girl, falling in love, arguing with your mother about what you should wear to your middle school dance, cutting your face with a razor for the first time, out- growing your clothes in one short season, living the life you will never get to live. To say goodbye is not enough. Anger clouds rational thought. I cannot let it go. Maybe, one day, when I sit in front of the great ocean of choice, I will feel you there in the waves lapping at my exposed toes, energy exponentially filling my aging body with so much joy for having known you.

Gabe's Hands

I am telling anyone out there reading this now that I am wrecked when I see this picture of my nephew's hands, but I think I would have done the same thing if he had been my child. This just absolutely tears me up.  I don't understand many things, but I certainly can't get it right in my mind that children have to die. Oh my. Oh, Porscha. How many nights I think about you and your longing for your son.

Johnny Cash - We'll Meet Again

In Memory Of Steve Dunn: You are so missed and thought of every day

L-R: My oldest son, Christopher, daughter-in-law, Jess, and Steve after the funeral of my father-in-law two years ago.

Enjoy Every Sandwich--Warren Zevon

What a roller coaster ride the last two months have been. Life is that way often, but it's been particularly up and down lately. 

I lost my brother-in-law in a car wreck on 6/05/13 at 6:00 PM. He & the family dog, Cookie, were on their way home from the office when he went off the shoulder of the road, over-corrected, hit an embankment, and his car went airborn and flipped several times.  He was not wearing his seat belt and was ejected from the sunroof and died of blunt force trauma.  He was 59 years old. Cookie was found right next to his body--injured but alive. She must have crawled her way to him as it is highly unlikely they were thrown at the same time. She has a broken leg, but it otherwise unharmed.

Steve and my sister-in-law had so many things they were looking forward to doing when he retired.  He was an attorney and had just bought the house next door and made it one of his offices so he could do much of his work from his home town.  We will miss him very much.

He starting dating my sister-in-law about a year after my brother-in-law (my husband's brother) died of cancer at the age of 59 leaving behind a 7 yr. old daughter (my beautiful niece, Elizabeth), his wife, his mother, brother and the rest of the family. From that point on, Steve has been a part of this family.  He's been here for every Thanksgiving, Christmas brunch, family funerals, my chidlren's weddings, etc. We are all truly heartbroken & in a state of disbelief. 

But, life goes on, and those who remain must try to find a way through the grief and continue on. I will never forget Steve. He was incredibly intelligent, witty, charitable, handsome, and he was a wonderful husband and father to his own children and my niece--whom he thought of as his own. 

Happy Trails To You, Steve. I look forward to the day we meet again.