Tonight will be one of those nights, where I will see you in my dreams. I'll dream I am a child again, sleeping in my bed when suddenly you cry out from your sleep. Once again you are in your warplane, death and dying underneath. Or maybe you are holding vigil for your young friends in their charred soldier's uniform.
I'll call you from across the hall. You will wake for a few brief moments and know where you are. You'll feel safe at last.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Snow on Cedar
I am watching the snow falling on the cedars in my backyard. I can't believe that Christmas Eve is a day a way. I need to get the house in order. Piles of laundry to fold and put away. Presents to wrap.
Ross is feeling unwell. I find it hard to stay on top of anything when he seems so unwell. Ella on the other hand, is energetic and noisy. She is laughing and talking in the loudest voice she can manage.
The last couple of weeks I have been hearing noises from within my bedroom. It sounds like the sorts of noises that belonged only to Bunjie. His rapsy breaths, the sounds of his paws on the wood floor. Has it really been a year since his passing? I have missed him so much.
David's grandfather passed a way recently. We missed the funeral because Ross was too sick to attend, but we saw him just before he passed. He was a kind, gentle man. There was something so peaceful about the last time we saw. He seemed aware of our presence. He tried several times to open his eyes, to acknowledge us. A sound came from deep within his throat. A unformed word. But a sound that did not need a reply. As he lay in his bed, I could not help but remember the last time I saw my father in his own hospital bed. I felt profoundly sad. For a moment it was not my husband's grandfather I was looking at, but my father. I thought of the grandchild he would never meet, as well as other life events he would not be part of. Atleast not in the physical world.
Then, I was was sitting next to my husband's grandfather again. A man who was much more than my husband's grandfather. A person who had accepted me into his family even before I married into it. Oh I don't think I'll ever look into eyes again that shine like a million suns.
Ross is feeling unwell. I find it hard to stay on top of anything when he seems so unwell. Ella on the other hand, is energetic and noisy. She is laughing and talking in the loudest voice she can manage.
The last couple of weeks I have been hearing noises from within my bedroom. It sounds like the sorts of noises that belonged only to Bunjie. His rapsy breaths, the sounds of his paws on the wood floor. Has it really been a year since his passing? I have missed him so much.
David's grandfather passed a way recently. We missed the funeral because Ross was too sick to attend, but we saw him just before he passed. He was a kind, gentle man. There was something so peaceful about the last time we saw. He seemed aware of our presence. He tried several times to open his eyes, to acknowledge us. A sound came from deep within his throat. A unformed word. But a sound that did not need a reply. As he lay in his bed, I could not help but remember the last time I saw my father in his own hospital bed. I felt profoundly sad. For a moment it was not my husband's grandfather I was looking at, but my father. I thought of the grandchild he would never meet, as well as other life events he would not be part of. Atleast not in the physical world.
Then, I was was sitting next to my husband's grandfather again. A man who was much more than my husband's grandfather. A person who had accepted me into his family even before I married into it. Oh I don't think I'll ever look into eyes again that shine like a million suns.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Imaginary Places
Ross turned 7 on August 8. I can't believe he is 7, although he looks older. He is tall and lanky, and has stopped stumbling over his coltish legs. He is wonderfully handsome, and wonderfully imaginative. Right now he is assembling leggo and humming a tune from the Star Wars soundtrack. He at some point today placed one of his little clones inside his sister's flower pot. Next to his clone is a paper heart which Ella made at camp yesterday.
Outside a white butterfly is floating effortless up the cedar. I should be pulling weeds or rearranging rocks in the rock garden. But here I am, indoors, planted on my couch, wondering what it is about the summer which makes each day blend in to one.
When I was the age of both my children my thoughts were hazy dreams carrying me along a wingless, effortless flight to happy places, imaginary.
Outside a white butterfly is floating effortless up the cedar. I should be pulling weeds or rearranging rocks in the rock garden. But here I am, indoors, planted on my couch, wondering what it is about the summer which makes each day blend in to one.
When I was the age of both my children my thoughts were hazy dreams carrying me along a wingless, effortless flight to happy places, imaginary.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Watership Down
The other night, Ross and I were looking for your tree. The sun was setting deep in the sky, and a solitary bird was singing in it. I could not tell your tree apart from the other trees at first, but Ross found it as if by instinct. The branches were stretching out into the sky. There was something mystical about it all. The light fading, the bird guiding Ross it. The branches melting into a quiet sea of sky.
And, as we were leaving the park, a dozen rabbits came out of nowhere. Their silhouettes creeping across the grass. Moving slowly and carefully in the darkness. I felt as if we were living among the pages of Watership Down, watching the rabbits take refuge, in the safety of their own shadows.
It seemed fitting, for the night to end this way.
And, as we were leaving the park, a dozen rabbits came out of nowhere. Their silhouettes creeping across the grass. Moving slowly and carefully in the darkness. I felt as if we were living among the pages of Watership Down, watching the rabbits take refuge, in the safety of their own shadows.
It seemed fitting, for the night to end this way.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
thornbury
Last night in my dreams, I was back at the cottage, that faced the Georgian Bay. And the quiet little cove that was footsteps away from the backyard.
I entered the front room, with the blue and red plaid couch, the pine bookshelf, with cottage books, and wooden ducks and pictures of a family I'd never met. Then there was a record player, and records that been neatly stacked away in the corner of the room. Next to it, magazines to leaf through. Some magazines were published long before I had been born.
I walked into the kitchen where I could see large undressed windows facing the bay. Mesmerizing waves rolling under pale blue clouds. Somewhere next to the cove , where the swans and the ducks rested, my children played. Collecting large irregular rocks. Some, shiny and salmon coloured. Others, dark like an overcast sky.
And there I was, walking slowly toward the brown L-shaped couch, with over-sized brown pillows. On the pale walls hung pictures of lakes and boats. On the opposite wall, hung a large mirror, with the bay looking at me. Waves cool and sparkling under the sun. I was happy to be there.
I could hear the sounds of play. My children laughing and talking. Arguing as well at times.
I could see their small backs facing me. My son's strawberry blond hair, looking flaxen in the sun. My daughter skipping and dancing, in her thin summer dress. My husband near by, his back to me as well. Standing there, tall, his dark hair under a red cap.
It was peaceful. Inspiring. I looked and everything I saw pulled me to it. I did not want to leave.
I entered the front room, with the blue and red plaid couch, the pine bookshelf, with cottage books, and wooden ducks and pictures of a family I'd never met. Then there was a record player, and records that been neatly stacked away in the corner of the room. Next to it, magazines to leaf through. Some magazines were published long before I had been born.
I walked into the kitchen where I could see large undressed windows facing the bay. Mesmerizing waves rolling under pale blue clouds. Somewhere next to the cove , where the swans and the ducks rested, my children played. Collecting large irregular rocks. Some, shiny and salmon coloured. Others, dark like an overcast sky.
And there I was, walking slowly toward the brown L-shaped couch, with over-sized brown pillows. On the pale walls hung pictures of lakes and boats. On the opposite wall, hung a large mirror, with the bay looking at me. Waves cool and sparkling under the sun. I was happy to be there.
I could hear the sounds of play. My children laughing and talking. Arguing as well at times.
I could see their small backs facing me. My son's strawberry blond hair, looking flaxen in the sun. My daughter skipping and dancing, in her thin summer dress. My husband near by, his back to me as well. Standing there, tall, his dark hair under a red cap.
It was peaceful. Inspiring. I looked and everything I saw pulled me to it. I did not want to leave.
rain
It is raining outside. I am sitting on the couch next to Ella, who is sleepily sucking her thumb. The humidity from the rain seems to have found its way into the soft curls that frame her face. Ross has lined up his clones which he says can also be storm troopers. In the background, Star Wars is playing and from time to time, looks up to see what incredible dramas are unfolding.
I can't help but notice how the grape vine is tangling itself around the branches of our cedar. How much work it will be for poor Dave to prune.
The rain is coming down hard now and the leaves look as if they are shivering.
I can't help but notice how the grape vine is tangling itself around the branches of our cedar. How much work it will be for poor Dave to prune.
The rain is coming down hard now and the leaves look as if they are shivering.
Friday, July 11, 2008
August morning
I still remember the tubes snaked into your arm. Purple bruises on thin, pale arms under the pale blue gown. You used to sport a permanent tan on your once, strong body. Then you became sick and you spent the last 7 months of your life imprisoned in a body that would not let you move or talk. It is getting closer to August the 4th, 4 days before my son's birthday. I really think you wanted to make it to his birthday, you hung on for as long as you could.
Then as I stepped out in the sunlight that morning, and pushed my son on his swing, you took your last breath.
Then as I stepped out in the sunlight that morning, and pushed my son on his swing, you took your last breath.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The secret room
I love the smell of the old classroom in the university, where I am teaching this summer. It reminds me of an old church with worn wood floors, and large arched gaping windows. I can see the trees outside, casting their windy shadows across the windows.
I like to imagine what it would have been like, in the turn-of-the-century. Dresses brushing across the floor, feet scrambling to take a seat behind the small wood desks.
I saw a stairway today that seemed to take me to some secret place. At the top of the stairway was a short hall leading to a room hidden away in half-darkness. I wonder what it was used for. It seems to be not in use now by the trail of dust that stops behind the door. This room haunts me because of its darkness, and because it sits behind a locked door in an abandoned hallway. I wish I had the key to let myself in.
I like to imagine what it would have been like, in the turn-of-the-century. Dresses brushing across the floor, feet scrambling to take a seat behind the small wood desks.
I saw a stairway today that seemed to take me to some secret place. At the top of the stairway was a short hall leading to a room hidden away in half-darkness. I wonder what it was used for. It seems to be not in use now by the trail of dust that stops behind the door. This room haunts me because of its darkness, and because it sits behind a locked door in an abandoned hallway. I wish I had the key to let myself in.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Barry Callaghan
This afternoon I can hear big band music blaring from the band shell. My daughter is sleeping, my son is sitting on the swing, his legs stretched out in front of him. My husband, sawing cupboard doors. The excruciating noise, competing with the big band music.
I don't know why I am thinking about Barry Callaghan's novel The Way the Angel Spreads her Wings. I have a preoccupation with trying to find it among my vast collection of dusty books. I haven't picked it up since I slotted it into its narrow spot on the bookshelf before my children were born. I haven't read it since the year I called Barry Callaghan, all that time ago when I was home from university for the summer.
I was a huge fan of his father's work, Morley Callaghan. I had studied his work in my Canadian Literature class in university. When I was home from school that summer, I harvested all of his books, re-read them, dusted them, and lined them up in order of publication. I simply couldn't get enough Morley Callaghan in my life. I had read every last book, and wished somehow that he could have been spared his untimely death so he could have kept on writing.
I managed to convince myself to call his son, who was a professor at the university where I studied. I managed to tell him how much I loved his father's work and how he was the best writer who ever lived. I know that Barry was enormously surprised to have a complete stranger call him up at home but he handled it graciously and talked openly about his relationship with his father.
I was unaware that Barry was a writer and that he had authored the aforementioned book as well as others. I felt embarrassed and naive, calling him up out of the blue and talking to him about his father, since I wasn't anything more than a worshiping fan. But he was charming, and managed to even indulge me a little. It was flattering to have Morley's son, Barry, tell me that if he had met me in person he probably would have wanted to run away with me. I thought his charm was delightful, or even quite thrilling to be honest. But I knew he had a special way with words, and that was why he wrote. So the next day I ran out to buy "The Way the Angel Spreads Her Wings" in curious anticipation, of Morley's son.
I don't know why I am thinking about Barry Callaghan's novel The Way the Angel Spreads her Wings. I have a preoccupation with trying to find it among my vast collection of dusty books. I haven't picked it up since I slotted it into its narrow spot on the bookshelf before my children were born. I haven't read it since the year I called Barry Callaghan, all that time ago when I was home from university for the summer.
I was a huge fan of his father's work, Morley Callaghan. I had studied his work in my Canadian Literature class in university. When I was home from school that summer, I harvested all of his books, re-read them, dusted them, and lined them up in order of publication. I simply couldn't get enough Morley Callaghan in my life. I had read every last book, and wished somehow that he could have been spared his untimely death so he could have kept on writing.
I managed to convince myself to call his son, who was a professor at the university where I studied. I managed to tell him how much I loved his father's work and how he was the best writer who ever lived. I know that Barry was enormously surprised to have a complete stranger call him up at home but he handled it graciously and talked openly about his relationship with his father.
I was unaware that Barry was a writer and that he had authored the aforementioned book as well as others. I felt embarrassed and naive, calling him up out of the blue and talking to him about his father, since I wasn't anything more than a worshiping fan. But he was charming, and managed to even indulge me a little. It was flattering to have Morley's son, Barry, tell me that if he had met me in person he probably would have wanted to run away with me. I thought his charm was delightful, or even quite thrilling to be honest. But I knew he had a special way with words, and that was why he wrote. So the next day I ran out to buy "The Way the Angel Spreads Her Wings" in curious anticipation, of Morley's son.
The Italian House
This is my favourite time of year. Grapes are starting to grow on their tangled vine across our pergola. The maple, elm and locust trees stand tall, in the shadows they have created for another. Our lilies are blooming, and our roses too, surrounded by their heady perfume. Our hostas are flowering, and our daisies too on their tall leafy stalks. The daisies stand in clusters of white, their petals touching, like soft embroidery on pillow cases.
My clothes hang out to dry on their clothes pegs, slowly taking in the fresh scent of summer air.
I like to watch birds bathing in the bird bath, white moths floating dreamily and lazily around us, my children playing and laughing barefoot in their playfort.
I think of books I'd like to read before the summer is out. Poetry books, short stories, and novels whose settings take us to a distant shore.
I think of my own writing. The stone house, the unread letter, the sun-baked rooms. The Italian house.
My clothes hang out to dry on their clothes pegs, slowly taking in the fresh scent of summer air.
I like to watch birds bathing in the bird bath, white moths floating dreamily and lazily around us, my children playing and laughing barefoot in their playfort.
I think of books I'd like to read before the summer is out. Poetry books, short stories, and novels whose settings take us to a distant shore.
I think of my own writing. The stone house, the unread letter, the sun-baked rooms. The Italian house.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Hero
Last summer, was the first summer that my son and I spoke about death. It was his sixth summer and a local firefighter had died suddenly in our community. The death of his hero, made him need to understand what this mystery called death was truly about as he lay awake nights before the funeral, wondering how he died. . And he would leave me with two of the hardest questions I'd have to answer. Why do we have to die at all? I knew the next question would be, Why do you and dad have to die one day?
I tried to explain it in a way that a six year old would understand. I wanted my explanation to be truthful but not overwhelming. I tried to explain it in a way that would in time seem like a normal, natural process that would not keep him up night, after night, worrying about its inevitability. More important, I wanted him to know, that I wanted us to think about the moments and days and summers hopefully to come, that we would enjoy together.
The day of the firefighter's funeral, we were at the park, just beside the arena that would welcome hundreds of mourners. We saw the slow procession of cars. Ross stood in the grass watching as a sea of people surfaced from their cars and moved in rows up the hill to the arena where the flag hung, half-staff. My son grabbed my mother's hand as he saw the fire truck appear which carried his hero's casket. I remember my son standing there in his white ice-cream stained shirt, and shimmery silver and red shorts. He decided that moment he was going to go to the funeral and that my mom was going to accompany him. It happened so quickly that I did not have any time to react. I knew then, as he and my mother disappeared past the front doors, that he would be a little boy with new knowledge when he re-emerged. He would walk away with his own observations, and ideas about what death was, shaken and sombre. And as I'd tuck him into bed that night, I would listen to him, and hold him close to me. I'd wait for him to fall asleep, and I'd think of him growing a little older every day. Experiencing life and death. I'd whisper, Ross,you are my hero.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Backyard bunny
Ever since my husband and son spread compost throughout our backyard, which includes Bunjie's litter, a strapping little brown bunny has moved in. Maybe he smells our late bunny in the garden so he has decided we are rabbit-friendly people. But the most interesting thing is, he appears just a couple of feet behind me every time I hang my clothes out to dry on the thick yellow chord that stretches across our yard. He has gotten so close that I have almost stepped on him. I can't believe how friendly he is, and how interested he is in watching me hang the clothes on their bright colored pegs. He hops behind me then disappears into our herb garden, where I know he sits under leaves of thyme.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
End of First Grade
Today was my son's last day of school for the summer. When I spotted him in the hallway, I saw him hugging his teacher's gift to him, a hardcover collection of Dr. Seus. On the inside page, was her special message to him, and her signature. He would open the book, glance at the message, then close it shut, and hold it against his chest.
He looked solemn in a way and so grown up for the end of first grade. He seemed coltish, taller than most kids his age, and a little unsteady on those legs which seem to be growing faster than the rest of his body.
He has made it to end of grade one and in this year he has faced the death of a beloved pet, seen his first crush move to a different school and watch his best friend move away to another province.
I am amazed by the ability he has shown so far, to deal with the challenges and experiences that have come his way. I am blessed to know him.
He looked solemn in a way and so grown up for the end of first grade. He seemed coltish, taller than most kids his age, and a little unsteady on those legs which seem to be growing faster than the rest of his body.
He has made it to end of grade one and in this year he has faced the death of a beloved pet, seen his first crush move to a different school and watch his best friend move away to another province.
I am amazed by the ability he has shown so far, to deal with the challenges and experiences that have come his way. I am blessed to know him.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Maria
Tonight I am thinking back to the bedroom that we shared in our childhood house. The brown and orange papered room, and the giant maple tree that stood outside it. I found such peace and comfort sharing that space with you..so much that when I moved into the bigger room next door, I never quite adjusted. The window air conditioner and the computer both made so much noise they kept me up at night. The air conditioner made a loud mechanical grinding noise as it pushed the air out, while the computer hummed even with the monitor turned off. I eventually thought enough was enough and moved a cot into your room, uninvited. It was a sanity saving mechanism, for me at least. I used to love to go through your closet, you never seemed to mind. I loved looking at your clothes, and books and collection of purses and wallets. I believe I even read your diary from time to time. It was such a sweet experience to hang out in that dim lit space filled with so many luxuries and secrets.
When I was bummed out, I felt it relaxing to watch you sit in front of your vanity mirror that lit up, watching you apply your makeup. You had so many wonderful shades to choose from. It was quite a palette. Your fondness for makeup started back then.
You never made me feel like I was an inferior little sister. Even when I walked home with a note from the school nurse, requiring me to have my hair washed chemically. The lice didn't gross you out as you patiently washed my hair.
How old were we when we lived there? From children to 20 somethings, with five years in between? Sometimes, I still hear our echoes, our laughter. As well as the silences that deepened the air between us.
When I was bummed out, I felt it relaxing to watch you sit in front of your vanity mirror that lit up, watching you apply your makeup. You had so many wonderful shades to choose from. It was quite a palette. Your fondness for makeup started back then.
You never made me feel like I was an inferior little sister. Even when I walked home with a note from the school nurse, requiring me to have my hair washed chemically. The lice didn't gross you out as you patiently washed my hair.
How old were we when we lived there? From children to 20 somethings, with five years in between? Sometimes, I still hear our echoes, our laughter. As well as the silences that deepened the air between us.
Ross and Ivor
Yesterday, my son's best friend moved away. It was hard for my son, to know that he would no longer see his friend in his classroom. Or see his coat hanging off his special hook. Or see his bike in its usual spot outside the school yard.
The mornings would not be full of the same excitement of running into his friend on the path where they would walk, and run. He'd have to roll down that green hill on his own, or convince his sister too.
On the way back from school, there would be noone to hang out with in that leafy Boys Only club-house that would be filled with silence sometimes, whispers often, and laughter almost always.
My son went to bed last night, feeling lost and lonely. Left behind. I hope for his sake that his heart will feel less heavy soon.
The mornings would not be full of the same excitement of running into his friend on the path where they would walk, and run. He'd have to roll down that green hill on his own, or convince his sister too.
On the way back from school, there would be noone to hang out with in that leafy Boys Only club-house that would be filled with silence sometimes, whispers often, and laughter almost always.
My son went to bed last night, feeling lost and lonely. Left behind. I hope for his sake that his heart will feel less heavy soon.
Father's Day
Last night as I was drifting off to sleep I thought of you and of the many summer nights you lay in your asparagus-green room listening to the thunder. Your wide-open windows letting the rain, thunder and lightening in. You never looked more peaceful as you did, watching the wind blow under the weight of curtains, the lightening illuminating your room, the pelting of rain against your window.
I could see you, slowly fading in and out of sleep. My picture in a silver frame on your night table, and somewhere else, a card I had made for you.
I finally felt myself letting go, falling through the spray of rain, seeing your face and hugging you like I had done before, not just on your day.
I could see you, slowly fading in and out of sleep. My picture in a silver frame on your night table, and somewhere else, a card I had made for you.
I finally felt myself letting go, falling through the spray of rain, seeing your face and hugging you like I had done before, not just on your day.
Fair
Today was a wonderful day for a fair. The thunder showers held off and Ross was able to eat his hot dog and cup cake in the sun, visit the bouncy castle, jump on a mini-trampoline and ride a pony.
I'm hoping to keep the kids busy for most of the summer between camps and cottage hopefully. I have one month which I still need to fill up to keep the kids occupied and I had a chance today to visit the venues and talk to one of the organizers of a local Bible Camp. Although, I was raised Catholic I consider myself non-denominational. I feel open to all sorts of religions, and why not sign the kids up ...
I was really hoping to make a positive impression so that I could sign up both children, even if signing up the youngest one was iffy because she didn't meet the age requirements. And finally I saw her in the crowds, next to her father. They had just come from a birthday party. She greeted us with a sparkly smile and dark blue eye shadow. Lots of it. Apparently Cinderella had piled on the make up for all the 3 and4 year olds.
Above all, Ella looked really proud of herself and her blue heavy lids.
What else stands out about the day...I saw life and death pictured together in my mind's eye. A woman nursing her baby, sitting on a large rock next to a crypt. It was amazing.
What else was amazing, the showers held off until the fair started to wrap up. Then my husband helped fold and clear tables away which was a kind thing to do because he wasn't even a volunteer. Good on you Dave. Good Karma heading your way!
I'm hoping to keep the kids busy for most of the summer between camps and cottage hopefully. I have one month which I still need to fill up to keep the kids occupied and I had a chance today to visit the venues and talk to one of the organizers of a local Bible Camp. Although, I was raised Catholic I consider myself non-denominational. I feel open to all sorts of religions, and why not sign the kids up ...
I was really hoping to make a positive impression so that I could sign up both children, even if signing up the youngest one was iffy because she didn't meet the age requirements. And finally I saw her in the crowds, next to her father. They had just come from a birthday party. She greeted us with a sparkly smile and dark blue eye shadow. Lots of it. Apparently Cinderella had piled on the make up for all the 3 and4 year olds.
Above all, Ella looked really proud of herself and her blue heavy lids.
What else stands out about the day...I saw life and death pictured together in my mind's eye. A woman nursing her baby, sitting on a large rock next to a crypt. It was amazing.
What else was amazing, the showers held off until the fair started to wrap up. Then my husband helped fold and clear tables away which was a kind thing to do because he wasn't even a volunteer. Good on you Dave. Good Karma heading your way!
To My Father On His Birthday
The sun is sinking somewhere into a gray river of sky. Today is sadly dark and dismal on your birthday. I have not spoken to you in five years and don't know where to begin.
I remember how much you appreciated nature. The Cherry trees are in bloom in my front window, and the window facing the chair where you once sat in my dining room. Even the Dogwood, the one that is overgrown, in my backyard, looks spectacular as it leafs and flowers.
Our lilacs are beginning to flower as well, but their sweet fragrance won't linger in the air for a few more weeks. I remember how much you loved the fragrance of lilacs and how we would drive in the country and you would pull off to the side of the road and open the window to let them in.
We never had lilacs where we once lived, but we were always surrounded by nature. You used to sit in front of a thin curtain, in the living room, watching the gulls, robins and cardinals drifting from our backyard to the field that stretched out behind the fence which separated us from the endless school yard.
I have not heard your voice, touched your hand or kissed your cheek in five years. You were not here for the birth of my daughter or Kenny and Angelina.
I have missed your guidance, your warmth, and your presence.
Maybe I'll hear your voice again if I read the poetry that you wrote and left for me. Or maybe I will know you are still here if I listen closely when I look at the pottery that you spun and masterfully painted.
I wonder if I decode the hieroglyphics on the red clay, if there will be a message waiting for me. A message that will tell me how to find you again, how to write again and the legacy you want me to share with my children.
I remember how much you appreciated nature. The Cherry trees are in bloom in my front window, and the window facing the chair where you once sat in my dining room. Even the Dogwood, the one that is overgrown, in my backyard, looks spectacular as it leafs and flowers.
Our lilacs are beginning to flower as well, but their sweet fragrance won't linger in the air for a few more weeks. I remember how much you loved the fragrance of lilacs and how we would drive in the country and you would pull off to the side of the road and open the window to let them in.
We never had lilacs where we once lived, but we were always surrounded by nature. You used to sit in front of a thin curtain, in the living room, watching the gulls, robins and cardinals drifting from our backyard to the field that stretched out behind the fence which separated us from the endless school yard.
I have not heard your voice, touched your hand or kissed your cheek in five years. You were not here for the birth of my daughter or Kenny and Angelina.
I have missed your guidance, your warmth, and your presence.
Maybe I'll hear your voice again if I read the poetry that you wrote and left for me. Or maybe I will know you are still here if I listen closely when I look at the pottery that you spun and masterfully painted.
I wonder if I decode the hieroglyphics on the red clay, if there will be a message waiting for me. A message that will tell me how to find you again, how to write again and the legacy you want me to share with my children.
Bravery Badge
Ross is wearing his bravery on his face. It looks like he has been in a knife-fight, or as another person already mentioned...a sword fight. He looked at himself in the mirror today and didn't seem too bothered by the nasty scar. He is, however, in pain and thinks he has a migraine.
I wonder years from now, what he'll say if anyone asks. Will it be his bravery badge? Will he try to impress him girlfriend and make up some crazy story about how that scar came to be?
For now he seems to be happy to tell the truth. He thinks the incident as terrible as it was makes a great story to tell.
And for now, he is looking at his two favorite toys. His magnetic car from his Aunty M. and his get-well gift, the Star Wars Starship that still needs to be assembled.
I wonder years from now, what he'll say if anyone asks. Will it be his bravery badge? Will he try to impress him girlfriend and make up some crazy story about how that scar came to be?
For now he seems to be happy to tell the truth. He thinks the incident as terrible as it was makes a great story to tell.
And for now, he is looking at his two favorite toys. His magnetic car from his Aunty M. and his get-well gift, the Star Wars Starship that still needs to be assembled.
Chicken-eating Crocodile
I have been to the hospital twice with my children these last two weeks. Last week it was Ella and the discovery of her pneumonia and the fact that her body is fighting both a viral and bacterial infection. Today, Ross was in the E.R. having his face sewn up after having a dresser with a large glass vase fall on his face.
The last time I saw so much blood was when I'd given birth to my children.
The doctor tried his best to keep Ross' attention focused on his travels abroad rather than his face being sewn up like a bloody rag doll. The doctor's favourite place was Australia, and his favourite adventure was watching the crocodiles being fed chicken for lunch. The entire chicken.Feathers and all. I forgot to ask if the chicken was dead or alive. Apparently the doctor found the noise to be less than appetizing but he seemed very impressed with the whole experience. Somehow, watching my sweet little six year old's face being sewn up with a steel-like thread, and the auditory description of a crocodile feasting on a chicken seemed to be too much on many different levels.
I knew this was all for Ross' benefit, but my hunch is that Ross wasn't benefiting from this at all.
The last time I saw so much blood was when I'd given birth to my children.
The doctor tried his best to keep Ross' attention focused on his travels abroad rather than his face being sewn up like a bloody rag doll. The doctor's favourite place was Australia, and his favourite adventure was watching the crocodiles being fed chicken for lunch. The entire chicken.Feathers and all. I forgot to ask if the chicken was dead or alive. Apparently the doctor found the noise to be less than appetizing but he seemed very impressed with the whole experience. Somehow, watching my sweet little six year old's face being sewn up with a steel-like thread, and the auditory description of a crocodile feasting on a chicken seemed to be too much on many different levels.
I knew this was all for Ross' benefit, but my hunch is that Ross wasn't benefiting from this at all.
Ella
Ella has not been herself in one month. I seem to spend a lot of time watching my children sleep when they are not well. She fell asleep on the couch, in her pink and slightly tattered sleeping beauty dress.Her fingers clutching her best doll, Belle. I still can't tell what color Ella's hair is. I think light brown, but most people say dark blond. She has long dark lashes, almost as long as her brother's. And when her hair is wet or damp it is curly. Big, soft, round curls.
I forgot that she was wearing her pink, red and white stripey pants. And her socks, one pink and the other pinker. Mismatched.
I need to remove her hospital wrist-badge. It seems to already have left a red mark around her once-chubby wrist.
I want to wake her up, and put her sandals on so we can sit on the deck, and enjoy the warmest day we've had yet. The day she's waited for all winter. But I know she needs to rest, and that everything I've wanted to tell her about spring, and nests being built in our backyard trees,
and the flowers she will help me plant, will have to wait too.
I forgot that she was wearing her pink, red and white stripey pants. And her socks, one pink and the other pinker. Mismatched.
I need to remove her hospital wrist-badge. It seems to already have left a red mark around her once-chubby wrist.
I want to wake her up, and put her sandals on so we can sit on the deck, and enjoy the warmest day we've had yet. The day she's waited for all winter. But I know she needs to rest, and that everything I've wanted to tell her about spring, and nests being built in our backyard trees,
and the flowers she will help me plant, will have to wait too.
Ross
Ross has been home from school 6 days in a row, going on 7. He is normally energetic, imaginative and full of questions about death, the Egyptian kings and where the sun is at night. Recently, however, he has been in incredible pain from a viral ear infection, and has been listless, his face drawn and colourless. I know a few weeks back I felt overwhelmed by the noise of my children, waiting for my husband to come home from work, so I could pass on the parenting reigns and collapse in bed, but today, I actually missed that almost deafening noise, and the flurry of their creative activity.
Tonight Ross sat on the couch and asked me to cuddle him. He rested his sleepy head on my shoulder and was fast asleep within minutes. I didn't want to move because I was afraid of waking him. For a few minutes as I held him in my arms I remembered what it was like when he was a baby and how I loved to hold him for hours even while he slept. This evening, I felt so blessed to feel his warm cheek against my shoulder, to hold him in my arms like I used to. I felt so protective of him, wanting to shield him from pain and sickness, and from any hurdles that may come his way.
When tomorrow comes, and he wakes, I hope that the fevers that have been burning through the night will be gone and not be back any time soon. And that he will be free of pain and that he and his sister will fill the house with the typical noise of child play.
Tonight Ross sat on the couch and asked me to cuddle him. He rested his sleepy head on my shoulder and was fast asleep within minutes. I didn't want to move because I was afraid of waking him. For a few minutes as I held him in my arms I remembered what it was like when he was a baby and how I loved to hold him for hours even while he slept. This evening, I felt so blessed to feel his warm cheek against my shoulder, to hold him in my arms like I used to. I felt so protective of him, wanting to shield him from pain and sickness, and from any hurdles that may come his way.
When tomorrow comes, and he wakes, I hope that the fevers that have been burning through the night will be gone and not be back any time soon. And that he will be free of pain and that he and his sister will fill the house with the typical noise of child play.
Bunjie
In the middle of the night on December 15, 2007, Bunjie, my sweet bunny, took his last breath. In the early hours of the morning I poked my head in his room to check on him, and found him laying on his side, his beautiful brown eyes half-open and peaceful, as though he were sleeping. At a closer look, I realized that he was not sleeping but had in fact passed away, in his nineth year.
My children, husband and I, gathered around him. My son bent down and kissed the mocha-coloured fur on his lovely forehead. My daughter, too young to understand the sadness of the moment, ran around the room happily singing, Bunjie is sleeping.
Finally, my husband and children left the room. I sat next to Bunjie, and kissed his soft ears, forehead and little paws one last time. It seemed too hard and too unthinkable to imagine Bunjie not nestling his head against my fingers again, or looking up at me first thing in the morning through his oversized dog cage. He was the only bunny we knew who lived in such a facility.
It hurt to think of the all the happy years that we shared because I knew that the preceding years would not include him. I thought of the special connection we shared and how its often stated how people have complicated relationships with their animal companions because of this close connection and the sense of peace that exists when they are together.
I felt inconsolable as my husband wrapped Bunjie in the blue blanket he had died on. I watched as my son tucked two carrots inside the blanket because he wanted his bunny to have something to eat on his journey to heaven. My sadness was punctuated by my husband gently placing Bunjie in a tan wicker box that I was going to deliver to our veternarian.
I dreamed lastnight of Bunjie. Happily eating out of my nephew's hand, happily climbing on our laps, encouraging us to pet him and scratch his back. I should have called him Happiness.
This morning, as I opened my eyes, I thought of the ashes that will occupy the space within a small pale urn in our china cabinet. I am attached to the idea of the body even though I believe in the here-after.
I hope my father, who passed away, and Bunjie's brother, were there to greet my sweet companion. Good-bye Bunjie, and thanks for teaching us about love, compassion and happiness.
My children, husband and I, gathered around him. My son bent down and kissed the mocha-coloured fur on his lovely forehead. My daughter, too young to understand the sadness of the moment, ran around the room happily singing, Bunjie is sleeping.
Finally, my husband and children left the room. I sat next to Bunjie, and kissed his soft ears, forehead and little paws one last time. It seemed too hard and too unthinkable to imagine Bunjie not nestling his head against my fingers again, or looking up at me first thing in the morning through his oversized dog cage. He was the only bunny we knew who lived in such a facility.
It hurt to think of the all the happy years that we shared because I knew that the preceding years would not include him. I thought of the special connection we shared and how its often stated how people have complicated relationships with their animal companions because of this close connection and the sense of peace that exists when they are together.
I felt inconsolable as my husband wrapped Bunjie in the blue blanket he had died on. I watched as my son tucked two carrots inside the blanket because he wanted his bunny to have something to eat on his journey to heaven. My sadness was punctuated by my husband gently placing Bunjie in a tan wicker box that I was going to deliver to our veternarian.
I dreamed lastnight of Bunjie. Happily eating out of my nephew's hand, happily climbing on our laps, encouraging us to pet him and scratch his back. I should have called him Happiness.
This morning, as I opened my eyes, I thought of the ashes that will occupy the space within a small pale urn in our china cabinet. I am attached to the idea of the body even though I believe in the here-after.
I hope my father, who passed away, and Bunjie's brother, were there to greet my sweet companion. Good-bye Bunjie, and thanks for teaching us about love, compassion and happiness.
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