Serving the Queens

Long Live The Queens

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 03:48:00 +0000

Dracula's Lament

It's getting kind of hard to believe things are going to get better
I've been drowning too long to believe that the tide is going to turn
And I've been living too hard to believe that things are going to get easier now
I'm still trying to shake off the pain from the lesson's I've learned.

Having you here now I see things are going to get brighter
Feeling you here now I know I might make it through
Loving you this long has made me believe in forever
And with you these dreams I've gotten might somehow come true.

And knowing your grace this well just makes me want to be better
And knowing your heart this well makes me wish mine would grow
(Oh my love)
And loving you this long makes me want to write sweet songs forever
With a little luck maybe we could make it all on our own.
(How much I love you)

When I see your face I would swear to the Lord I was dreaming
When I hold your hand I watch time disappear against you
(Oh my love)
When I speak your name I can feel I just said something sacred
While the saints pray for heaven I thank God I'm already there.

Jason Segel

Long December

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 20:24:00 +0000

"A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leaving
Oh the days go by so fast."

Counting Crows, Long December

* * *

Big A's great-grandmother passed away last week and today, in an old church in a small town, I attended her funeral.

I went to pay my respects to her fathers' family and, honestly, to see how Big A was processing, or not processing, her grief.

It wasn't until about two hours before the service that the knot in my stomach set in. The last funeral I'd attended in an old church was my grandfather's.

When I'm in public places and it's not appropriate to tap my chest or rub my neck, instead I move my feet incessantly, crossing my legs, rolling my ankles. In order to breathe, I need to be moving.

There are reasons I'm a vagabond right now, necessities in duffel bags, floating from home to home.

* * *

The thought of this Christmas almost paralyzes me; my grandfather gone. With absolute certainty, I know that everyone else feels his loss deeply as well; it is a testament to the man that he was.

It's just that sometimes I wonder if anyone else in the room is feeling the same way I am, if they are finding themselves walking down the aisles of grocery stores and suddenly, a memory, a scent and instantly the loss is so crushing that their next breath is painful.

If they are faking their way through smiles and politeness and days while choking back sobs when his blue eyes and distinct laughter come to mind?

* * *

I've always been like this; always felt a little off from the rest of the world; it's why writing here has been such a relief to me--to know that elsewhere there were people that as children were consumed with thoughts about the animals lying on the side of the road, moths with broken wings, the lives of the most deprived and tormented at school.

It's a blanket of comfort to know that other parents might find it perfectly acceptable that the loss of the last of baby fat might render you stunned; to find kinship among the world, people that feel the same, think the same, people that understand when I say sometimes I feel consumed with how fast this life is passing me by.

"Why would you even think about that," he said when I told him that what was wrong was that I couldn't get my mind off that little girl in Florida.

"How do you not think about that?" I asked.

* * *

Big A and Little A are vastly different when it comes to expressing their emotions. Big A boxes hers up and stores them away, Little A wears them on her sleeves and thinks nothing of suddenly changing topics from laughter to stating, "I miss Smoosh. I miss Jessie. I miss my grandpa up the hill." When she does this, Big A hardens and hisses at her.

I've tried talking to Big A about expressing emotions, but she comes by this compression honestly. Her dad openly admits he doesn't do this easily. I am relieved, to many ends that she has someone so similar to her.

The other day when I was driving, I glanced back at Little A. She was staring up at the clouds, her lips moving, her little pointer finger weaving magic at the world passing by. My heart ached; the thought of that dreamy life, what it might mean for her.

I don't want her dropping to her knees someday to grieve my loss, shattering glasses, staring out windows, weeping in showers.

* * *

"What's going on?" Big A asked me, about a month ago as I was standing at the kitchen sink with tears quietly streaming down my face.

"I miss Grandpa so much," I replied.

"Mom". It wasn't a question, it wasn't an annoyance, it wasn't her mocking me. It was a simple statement, like she could finally see me for me and loved me anyway.

* * *

And here we are, back to December. Back to an old church, a funeral in a small town, snow falling outside.

All in all, Big A did well. Following the service, her grandmother noted that Big A seemed to take it harder than any of them; she had barely wept. Her dad hugged her and said he knew it was hard to be sad around his family.

Part of me was relieved.

Mostly the part of me that walked out to my car, put my head on the steering wheel and wept about a man that I loved beyond words, a red truck traveling down a dirt road, a Christmas without him, a loss I cannot express.

I was tapping my chest as I drove away.

* * *

First Blood

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:42:00 +0000

I'd be lying if I told you it was the first time.

The first time, it was Kirk Gibson. I was sick with grief for weeks, months, after the Tigers traded him--what was I supposed to do now with my childhood poster dreams?

Following that my aunt left unannounced for Florida; I still remember running as fast as I could up a dirt trail, choking back sobs, to my grandparents home after my mom told me, only to verify that what she had said was true.

Later my aunt sent home a picture with her and Gibson-she had run into him somehow. It seemed fitting, I knew even then through my tears.

* * *

When I met the one who would wound me next, I was eighteen.

It was a hot, sunny day and we were on a beach in northern Michigan. The introduction was also the end; the blue of his eyes shook me-my knees knocked, my heart raced, I had no idea what was happening, but I went anyways.

I left my innocence there, swimming in the waves of the beach of my youth--again, with the fitting.

I saved the piece of paper that I had written his phone number down on the first time he called me. It was barely legible, my hand was shaking that bad.

I remember, months later, laying in my cousin Mike's apartment, hazy from the booze we'd consumed and ears ringing from the music we'd danced to, smoke hanging on me like a gauzy shirt. Mike was laying on the floor, I was laying on the couch, with one leg hanging off, he looked at me and said, "When you love someone that much, no matter how it ends, it won't end well."

He had an apartment at that time that was right on the beach, his windows were open and I heard the waves pounding on the shore. I remember closing my eyes and the roller-coaster feeling, murmuring, "I know."

The waves grew louder.

* * *

Initially, we thought that there were ways around the end. I'd attend a different college, he could move to a different town.

There are things that transcend all probability and reason; I've seen them.
This was not one of them.

Each day after class, I would walk in the door and the first words out of my mouth would be, "Did he call?" I'm not sure who it hurt more, me or her, each time she shook her head no.

Until the day I woke up and stared at my ceiling and thought, "No more. I'm not asking today."

When I arrived home I chatted about classes and political science and papers that I had to write.

The air seemed heavier, but I ignored it when I breathed in. I knew, I know now, on some level, so it shouldn't have rocked me as much as it did that night sitting on the couch.

"What," I said, giving up, looking at her.

She didn't answer at first. A piece of yarn on the blanket, rolling through her hand. I knew, then.

"You didn't ask today." She looked up, finally, at me. There was already a tear streaming down my face.

"He called," I said. "Yes." She looked back down.

I don't remember what country was the destination point of the final letter that I mailed to him. I remember my knees buckling when I got the call that he was getting married; they'd always been my weakness around him.

There were not enough miles to run, stadium stairs to pound, boys in the intramural basketball league to chew up and spit out.

After that, it was I who did the wounding.

* * *

What does that mean today? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

When I was there for the birth of my niece last week and was told that I must wear a mask; if I kissed her it could kill her; I laughed to myself thinking I should have been wearing a mask my whole life.

Except maybe I was.

* * *

I remember his dad visiting me, years later...I was braiding Big A's hair. He said to me, "I'm sorry about him. I wish I knew what he was thinking." I laughed him off--it didn't matter anymore, I told him.

Do you understand when I tell you that I was sad that it didn't?

* * *

I don't have an ending for this, I just felt like it needed to be written, it was on my mind when I was staring at the ceiling.

I do know that if the woman that I am today were to meet the girl that I was on that beach, before I met him, with the possibility of sending her off before knowing the blues of his eyes, I would hug her and send her headfirst, running down the dunes anyway.

And I'd tell her to take better care of her knees.

A Jet Plane

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 19:12:00 +0000

"My bags are packed, I'm ready to go, I'm standing here outside your door..." we sang this incessantly as children, no idea what it really meant.

I miss that unawareness.

My bags are packed, figuratively.

I want to see 10 ballparks next year.

I want to see Maine in the fall.

I am going to Sedona, hell and high water being nothing to me.

I'm tired of waiting until tomorrow; of putting off joy; of putting me at the bottom of what matters to me.

* * *

"People ask me what I do in the winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."

Rogers Hornsby

100 Words

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 20:00:00 +0000

I accepted a challenge from a friend, write a story in 100 words or less. Here is my submission:

Born.

So many photos.

Real or created memories?

A barn with basketball hoops.

A dirt road.

A wood truck.

Forts and clouds.

A black mustang.

Aunts.

Uncles.

Sisters.

Cousins.

Softball.

Basketball.

Death.

Books.

Writing.

A line in the dirt, born from my toe stopping the swing the first time I didn't jump. I wasn't afraid of falling when I landed; I was afraid of what people would say if I fell.

Middle school.

The cruelty of girls.

High school.

The cruelty of "popular" people.

College.

The mystery of fate.

Career.

Children.

Love.

Nostalgia.

Regret.

Wonder.

Gratitude.

Fear.

What if?

Birth....

Game Time

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 17:43:00 +0000

Figuratively, I am decked out in my high-top white Puma's and my practice jersey that I never returned to my school, #22 peeling off the back.

I'm tired; really, really tired, not just figuratively.

I saw my sister give birth to her baby; it was amazing, life-affirming, so emotional that even I have few words for it.

While I was there, rubbing her head, replacing her wash clothes, telling her that she could do this, holding the hand of A, who was speaking so gently to her as well, "No, S, you can do this.", I was trying not to remember our childhood, the other day that we were kids playing; because yesterday we were adults, watching our niece enter this world. I tried not to think of it because of the emotions it brought to the surface...I wanted to be here and now.

I can't ever thank S enough for letting me be there. For loving me and trusting me enough to share this incredible moment; for reminding me that this cycle of life, sometimes so confusing, is possibly just perfect and who are we to question it.

Even though I don't think I can express, my gratitude, thank you, S. Thank you. No matter how long I'm here, I'll remember that moment always.

But now, actually, even then, in the midst of it, there are things that should not be.

Things I am exhausted of. Things I am not going to cover with a smile anymore. I am sorry, in advance; I know now I cannot resolve this without letting go of other things and people and memories that I've held so close.

However, I've already given up on a lot of them and just not admitted it, thinking there might be a chance that if I didn't say it aloud, it wouldn't be true.

I'm done, with that part of me.

Am I perfect? Ha! Am I sorry for my transgressions? Yes. Do I need to continue to be sorry for things that I HAVE NOT DONE? Things that are perceived?

Do I want to walk onto this court, a ball of hurt and anger and regret tucked under my arms and toss it with one bounce across the floor and say, "Check?" No. I signal myself in at the score-booth table, knowing there is no way to win.

But I can't sit on the bench anymore, tapping my chest and moving my feet and smiling under a mask and dreaming of making the game winning shot.

Everyone knows it's defense that wins games, anyway.

* * *

"It is how you show up at the showdown that counts."

Homer Norton

The Art of Living

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 04:48:00 +0000

"All the art of living is a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."

Havelock Ellis

* * *

I let go today.

For anyone that knows me, they may be surprised. I was surprised, initially.

I was listening to a client droning on about why he didn't accomplish the *two* things I asked him to, again, looked at the files piled up against my bed, and then glanced outside to look at one of my favorite sights: The bird feeder outside my window. The cardinals are back.

As he continued with his excuses, I flipped through his file, through all the work that I had done for him, and thought, "I don't need to save him. I don't need to save him to save me."

Each window outside our home has a bird feeder outside of it. I pulled back all the shades today so that I could see them. Most of them were empty.

The thing about the birds is that they are forgiving. Leave town for a week and return with feeders bare and no chirping to be heard, walk outside with sunflower seed and almost immediately, despite your neglect, you hear them sing.

You say it's primal, it's their own need to feed themselves, it isn't for me, personally. They are oblivious of me. They could care less who I am.

This isn't a new concept to me, I tell you. I know oblivious.

When I offer them things in my out-stretched hands, they sing their praise to me as they circle and finally land upon my fingers. That is something; they see me.

I've many gifts tucked away, gifts I haven't been able to give, things I crafted and perfected and offered, cautiously, carefully, eagerly--oh, when they see this, I won't be invisible anymore! And I pretend not to care when I return, hands still full, heart ragged and I smile and say, "it's not a big deal," and go to my office and turn on my computer and pull out a blue file: Who shall I help tonight?

Because God forbid the person that I help might be myself.

Until today.

Laying in my bed, my computer resting on me, him telling me the stress of having been up late on the wii and losing his bus pass and could I call him in like two hours because no, he doesn't have any of the 17 cards I've given him with my number on it, all those papers in the file!

All those hours of MY! LIFE!

That I handed over to him; far more than any other professional in my field would consider giving and he cannot program my number? He cannot return a piece of paper?

He thinks nothing to think not of me at all.

I told him I'd call him; knowing that I wouldn't, knowing that he wouldn't notice that I didn't.

Instead I wrote his closure recommendation and breathed deep. I would have been crying, before, letting someone go like that, writing I don't believe there is hope for them. Today I just breathed relief.

Within three minutes of sending that recommendation, the phone rang. I smiled at the number.

"Ms. Jenn!" She squealed; my smile spread quickly, too quickly it turned out; I forget the blisters from the fever still, and soon I felt the blood draw to the surface and grabbed a tissue and watched it turn bright red.

"Ms. Jenn! You won't believe this! I have four interviews within the next week! Four! Just like you said, give it three to four weeks and they'd call!"

She named the employers and I continued to smile; I know she will find work soon--good work-- and I know she will be grateful and I know from experience that a year from now, I could pass her on the street and she would stop and hug me and tell me how I changed her life. A stranger, really, she is to me and yet I know she would do this; she will always remember me. She will be shocked to know that I will so easily remember her.

I will hold her always, with many others that I know have genuinely wanted help and a chance and someone to recognize what they were holding in their out-stretched palms.

They are always amazed at my kindness, they say at our last meeting when I give them a card and a hug and tell them anything they need, they can always call. It's never my letter writing, my coaching, my gut-wrenching honesty, my driving them to interviews. It's always my kindness that they say they will remember.

I like that about me.

"I have no idea what the hell you saw in a fuck-up like me," one of my favorite clients said in our closure session. He'd been on the brink of disaster when I first met him; he was 97 days into full-time employment, with benefits, and his house payments were current again the day we said goodbye.

And breaching all protocol, my voice wavering, no attempts to hide the tears spilling from my eyes when I grabbed his hands, looked directly at him and said, "I saw myself."

"Fuck," he said, wiping his face. "I gotta go. Can't be late. Jenn would kick my ass." And we smiled and hugged and when he left, I looked at the tears on his paperwork. At some point this past year, he sent me an email with the picture of his newborn daughter and he told me how "fucking blown away" he was with her. I told him to make sure he told her this. "How could I not fucking tell her?" He asked. "I'm fucking living for her." I'll hold onto him always.

If I've learned anything of late, it is that there are things worth holding and there are things that you just cannot hold anymore because the weight is too much. It is time to dust off those gifts and give them to someone else; they are gifts; they do me no good here; perhaps they were meant for the new recipients all along.

* * *

“One problem with gazing too frequently into the past is that we may turn around to find the future has run out on us.”

Michael Cibenko

Sometimes It's Not Pixie Dust

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 01:55:00 +0000

"Game on, 2009, you miserable bitch of a year. I'm gonna go barn-style, old-school: no blood, no foul; no clock; first one to "mercy" loses. Let's just see which one of us is standing on January 1st of next year--if I were you, I'd put my money on the chick with the white high-top Puma's who has a kid that's five feet tall." (Five Feet Tall)

* *

I wrote the above from a post in September. I expected, at that point, that things would get better this year.

Funny thing, expecting.

As the doctor was pausing in his speech, an "uh" and "well" and "um" too many, I interjected, "It's probably not from too much pixie dust, huh?"

And a laugh escaped and since he doesn't know me that well, he has no idea the power of my ability to laugh when the most inappropriate opportunities arise.

Humor, as a shield.

A smile, as a mask.

Sarcasm, an attraction and a trait and a weapon that I wield.

I think, for now, I shall just laugh. I mean, what the fuck did I expect? Him to hand me a rainbow and say, "Just paste this on your window. You'll feel better in no time." Since my brain functions, by this point, I knew better.

I don't know the answers; please don't ask.

I won't know for two weeks, at a minimum, and then I'm not sure that a doctor in Ann Arbor will realize the awesomeness of me without having been in my presence and may quite possibly put me off until the holidays are over.

I know you, aware of my charm, cannot imagine. It took about three seconds for me to as well.

These things take time when it seems like you have none. I am an impatient person. I am not lost on the irony.

I can control the time while I wait, and I will. I will watch my sister give birth to her daughter. I will wrap up with A this weekend and demand she do shit for me and play the sick card and she'll laugh and say, "Nice try bitch. Get me a beer." And we'll make one of the kids get them.

I'm done with work after tomorrow, except for reports. No more meetings. No more people for this year, except the ones I love the most.

I'll let Little A put on her own make-up and sing and shake to "Paparazzi" as many times as she wants.

I'll let Big A play Guitar Hero over and over and over and I'll sing.

I'll make Christmas cookies and Christmas cards and design with HRH a light plan to completely piss off our neighbors.

I'll go to church on Sundays and Wednesdays. I'll sleep in. I'll eat whatever the hell I want because I can't gain a pound to save my life. (Ha, gotcha. Nothings sacred, certainly not me.)

Sometimes it's not pixie dust. I'm okay with that.

Really, 2009? That's all that you've got?

Why, yes, those are Puma's I'm pulling out. I wasn't kidding about them.

Bring it, bitch.

Post Mortem

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 23:32:00 +0000

I drove myself into the ER this morning having decided four days of 104-105 temps with a body wracked in pain was enough. (I remember my sister A had a t-shirt with a dead cow depicted, flat on its back, legs straight in the air. It said, "No really, I'm fine".)

Turns out I now have a severe kidney infection. Hospitalization severe, except I forgot that I had kids and wanted to come home. "How? How can I have this? Do you know how many anti-biotics I'm on?"

"You'll need to call your primary care physician, today. He needs these results."
In the meantime, IV Cipro, ten days of Cipro.

I'm tired now.

Not just in the physical sense but tired in a sense that I hate about me this year.

I was looking at my legs shaking on the table and realized how much muscle I've lost since my surgery. I haven't run much since. Hard to do when you are dragging a leg behind you. And I wondered then, "I wonder if he knew. If, in those last seconds, he put a hand to his chest and thought 'my body has betrayed me'."

When I was ten, my uncle died at the age of 26 while playing in a basketball tournament.

It was a cold, cold night in February and my parents had gone with my grandparents to the Valentine's Ball at the Lions Club. There were four of us then, four sisters. We were home with Aunt C when the phone rang.

A raced to get it and, still I see in slow motion, her pulling the phone from her ear, eyes wide, staring into mine, running to me. "It's Aunt M. She's screaming." She clung to my long nightgown, we had matching ones, as I pushed her behind me and turned to watch C fall to her knees, screaming, a howl I've heard from one human since.

I walked over to take the phone from her. M was still screaming on the other end. I quietly, softly tiptoed over and hung it up. C crawled to the couch and picked up her coat, "I need to go outside. It's OK, I need to go outside." And she smiled, a lie, in our honor, to shield us, to save us. It is now, recalling this, that I weep with her slow transition out of my life.

The Parent Trap was on. We watched the TV in horror, listening to her screams from our porch. I looked out at her, the clear sky, the bright moon shining down, on her knees, rocking, her breath visible in the air as it staggered, jagged and torn, from her chest.

I took the girls and I told them we were going to be OK. We would be safe. I got their pillows and our afghans and put them in the walk-in closet in the front room.

"Nothing bad will find us here," I promised. But it did.

My aunt M arrived, then another. Our parents did not. I directed the girls to change their prayers. The damn prayers of a Catholic. My parents were gone because I meant to run over A's foot with the Big Wheel. My parents were gone because I thought bad thoughts about my CCD teacher. I'm angry, still, that I didn't know a kinder God then.

"Please let it be anyone but mom and dad. Please let it be anyone but mom and dad."
Our hands clasped together, murmuring over and over, louder and louder as the sobs outside the door permeated within.

My mother walked in and got us out of the closet and put us into the bed that A and I shared. "Where is dad?" "He's here; he's outside." "What is happening mom?" She told us that our uncle was sick and kissed our foreheads.

A and I took turns crawling down the hall each time we heard a car, a new voice.

"The priest," She reported.

"A man with blond hair," I informed.

"They are talking about what to do with his dog and car," A whispered.

I crept down the stairs and finally saw my grandparents. She had on a long turquoise dress. She was shaking. We didn't go down again.

We laid in that bed, hands, arms, legs entwined, waiting. We didn't know for what, but we waited.

My mother gathered us in the morning and took us to the couch. "I have to tell you something hard. Something sad."

I try to imagine looking into the eyes of my children now, to deliver to them what she had to say to us.

"Uncle K is gone." We sat.

"Uncle K died." We wailed.

She gathered us into our afghans and rocked us all.

My father came out, finally, and we watched from the kitchen. A man of little emotion, a rock. He picked up the phone to call the subcontractors that worked for the family business.

"Yeah, Bill, we, uh, we won't be, we aren't..." And the howling, the piercing scream, I heard again as he fell to his knees and my mother took the phone.

We looked amongst ourselves and we locked legs under the table.

Now, as an adult, I understand what happened next. The thought, quickly pushed away, the thought of that loss; I understand now.

I understood not then as we were divided amongst our mom's siblings and taken to their homes, screaming, pounding the windows, "No! No! We'll be good. We'll be quiet, please, no!" My eyes went from mom to A, our palms on the windows, our eyes locked.

I thought I would never see her again. I was insane with a new grief.

We didn't know of death until then, so this was confusing. Young people died? Why not Busi? Why not Dzia-Dzia? Why him? Are we next? Are mom and dad next? Who is next? How do you know? How do you sleep again? What if we never left the house? Would you die then? How do you dribble a basketball ever again?

I went back to school ten days later, a shell, I know of what I was.

I was in the third grade.

My best friend, Lill, sat in silence with me on the playground for days until one day we laughed.

I was in the third.grade.

We had selected poems to memorize and read aloud in January, in a different time, a different world.

I had selected "If Nancy Hanks Came To Town", a poem about what Abe Lincoln's mother would ask of him if she came back as a ghost. The opening stanza:

If Nancy Hanks
Came back as a ghost,
Seeking news
Of what she loved most,
She'd ask first
"Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe?
What's he done?"

It was the first time writing made me weep. My teacher, her small frame belying her large soul, pulled me aside. "I thought that maybe you would want to read this instead. You don't have to memorize it, you can just read it and be done, OK?" I nodded and began to read:

Whose woods these are, I think I know,
His house is in the village though....

It wasn't until years later that I understood exactly what she had done for me that day. How she had probably given it so much thought, how she somehow knew that one day I would still love to read so much that I would discover his words, too, spoke of death, of what lies ahead.

I thought of her and wept at her kindness and for the girl in her nightgown eager for a night with Aunt C, when for the first time, in the first home that I owned, I painted by hand that poem unto my wall.

It took me days.

It took me a lifetime.

I wonder now, my body once one that was strong and hard and muscled, what he thought then. If he ever understood what had happened. I hope not. I hope he thought, "Oh God, I'm going to fall," and began to laugh, never knowing there would be no arising from this faltering.

On my last day of third grade, my teacher handed me a folded paper. "I thought that someday you might understand this. I will never forget you."

In her perfect handwriting, I read:

To An Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

It meant something then. It means something now. They are different, those things, but they still hold me.

So I wonder tonight, shaking as I type, unable to stop the chills, unable to not write, unable to sit on my left leg, unable to recognize the shape in the mirror. Lighter, now on the scale than when at my prime health and ironically, I feel heavier.

But I won't, always. No matter what it takes, I won't. One day, maybe not this week, not this year, not in the thaw of the next, but one day, I will turn from my driveway, my steady pace comforting me and think not of what lies behind, but what lies ahead.

My face will turn to the sun. I am a runner. It is my turn to run.

I got Kidney Stones for Thanksgiving & Other Holiday Miracles

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 16:40:00 +0000

This year while my relatives were gathered over a fowl and ten different desserts, I was huddled under my blankets, chattering profusely, willing the narcotics to work already. Oh, and peeing into a screen; I don't mean to leave out the fun parts.

I've yet to eat one single piece of pie and I'm bitter, so bitter that I took a banana pudding cup and mixed it with cool whip and after two bites, decided it wasn't a great idea and gave it to the dog instead.

I bided my time between pee breaks by reading magazines, surfing the net and taking part in telephone conversations that I most likely won't recall, except for my conversation with my sister A, who said, "So you're not going to remember what I'm going to tell you then?" To which I told her yes I would and I typed up notes that now are quite humorous to read and were helpful in recollecting our little chat.

****

One of the last stops on the net that I found one evening was this one: http://twilightsaga.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Twilight_Saga_Characters

I went there because earlier in the week, I had watched both of the movies that are out and learned the following vampire "facts" from Adriana:

Vampires CAN go out during the day, but they have to avoid direct sunlight, NOT because they burn, but because they shine, like diamonds, and are easily identified from the beauty of the moment.
Despite my old school training regarding vampires, garlic, crosses and getting stabbed through the heart are not effective when killing a vampire or keeping it away. The only way to kill a vampire is to rip it apart, limb by limb, and then burn those limbs.

After sitting through the second movie, I couldn't wrap my brain around the concept that in both movies up to a pivotal point, vampires appeared to be very, very fast, could fly, and traveled the globe within minutes. However, in order to save Edwards "life"(?) they had to drive in a car, to an airport, after which you see a plane flying over the ocean, then drive a second fast car to the desired location. I told Big A I'd be OK with this if she could answer just one of these questions:

How did they get through airport security? On two continents?
Why didn't they just fly themselves, like through the air?
How did they get a rental car that fast, because we all know that is impossible?
If I agree to become a vampire, can I too own only very cool cars?

Anyway, back to reading that site: NOT a good idea when addled with narcotics and in a home completely alone. Just not. I doubt that the good vampires would be in my home when I have orchards full of deer that they subside off of, so I could only assume it would be the bad vampires coming for me.

****
According to my emails, I made only one on-line purchase during this three day period and actually needed what I ordered.

****

By Friday/Saturday early hours, my thought process was like this:

ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: I am not moving again. I'll just pee the bed.
ME: How can I have the flu and kidney stones when I'm on a gazillion anti-biotics.
ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: Fine.
ME: OMG. It hurts to move. Why are my clothes soaking wet? Did I pee the bed?
ME: From your fever, you asshole.
ME: I hope to God there are no vampires out there.

Exciting, I know.

****

My sisters that lack the mental fortitude that my sister S and I share went Christmas shopping on Friday morning with mom at like 4:00 a.m. or something. They openly admitted they accomplished almost nothing, to which S and I laughed smugly amongst ourselves until I reviewed my notes and found that A had to wrap Christmas presents, which meant that some were purchased. I suck at note-taking.

****

Today I am not taking any narcotics to see if I am actually still in pain or just high to the point of assuming I'm in pain, so then manifesting the symptoms of pain upon myself.

And today, the first being that revealed to me that there was a love more fierce than what I felt for my parents and siblings turned eight.teen.

From this:

To this:

Without so much as a warning. A bit of wisdom for you Bosh, as you venture into this thing called adulthood:

It's not the vampires, it's Time.

Writer

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 04:17:00 +0000

What it meant today was different than what it meant two weeks ago. This grief changes shape so easily while I feel so unable to move.

Two stones, in our yard. Two markers, covered in flowers picked from all of our tear-stained hands. Two stones, "Peace" and "Love". Two stones, anchoring a part of me that I've yet been able to express adequately. Two lives, loved so very much and gone so very differently.

One ripped from me by a force that still leaves me with one hand tapping my chest or rubbing my neck or twisting my legs somehow. Anything to avoid the still, the quiet, the knowledge that there will no longer be the "one, two, three. pause. one, two, three. pause" drinks from her water dish at night. There will be no more three circles and a black body cradled to me under the covers, just her nose reaching out for air.

She would sleep like that all night.

I wish I remembered now if I'd made HRH turn her three times before he laid her to rest. That thought bothers me a lot. A lot more than it should, I know. But there are parts of my brain that don't stop working no matter how loudly I demand them to.

One broken, willing herself to stay, out of the sheer love that she had for me. I never would have thought that I had it within me--to hold the body of my best friend who doesn't want to leave and look into her beautiful brown eyes and know this is it, this is goodbye? I think now that I didn't have it in me, and I will be realizing that slowly, each time my hand reaches for her at my side, for many years.

She took many beautiful photos, but this was one of my favorites:

I titled it, "Constant Companion".
Wherever I was, she was as well.
Until the day I sent her from me.

What it meant today as I was facing down deadlines and calendars and thinking of the presents that I needed to buy was that for the first time in 16 years, there will be no gifts for The Smoosh and Jessie under our tree.

And there shall be no gifts for my grandfather under a tree hundreds of miles away, but that is another story.

This year meant to me a lot of loss; painful, wounding, sobbing on your knees loss. So much loss at times that I was afraid to face the next day, wondering what it would bring.

But still, I'm here. Not the same; I'll never be the same. But still, I'm here.

I feel that this year has written upon me "grief", over and over. I believe that I will recall this year always and feel cold and wrap my arms around myself.

I feel that this upcoming year, I shall write upon it instead "joy", over and over. I believe that I will recall next year always and tilt my face to the sky to greet the sun when I do.

I am a writer. And it is my turn to write.

An Open Letter to Rick Reilly & The Subscription Guilt People

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 19:17:00 +0000

It happened again the other day. There, in my mail, in my nephew's innocent handwriting:

"Please, help our school."

By ordering magazines, mind you. Last year I told my sister A that I already had 73 magazines coming to my house and besides, I didn't have time to read them all anyway. To which she exclaimed, "But Rick Reilly went to ESPN!"

I looked at her in severe doubt, debating whether this was an excellent selling tactic or the truth.

A little background on Mr. Reilly: He wrote for Sports Illustrated for, like, ever. He wrote articles that I would frequently rip out off the back page and tape randomly around the house.

Which initially really pissed off my dad, since I happened to be a child living in his home when that started and it was technically his magazine.

That he hadn't read yet.

A typical Wednesday evening in our home usually included the following quote from our father: "Where the hell is my Sports Illustrated?" I digress.

The point is that his writing moved me. He wrote of sports, and little people, and the way that sports moved them, what it meant to them. He wrote of kids dying in car accidents and fathers playing golf in their honor, refs that made bad calls that altered their lives, what he would do if he had a year left to live.

I thought of him this year on a particularly sunny day this past summer after I hung up the phone with my grandmother who had said, "Those damn Tigers...".

And suddenly, the thought of her there alone, in a home that once housed her nine children, countless grandchildren, a house where I'd spent a good portion of my childhood propped up on my elbows, watching the Tigers, a house so full of life now suddenly left with her as the sole occupant, watching the Tigers alone; that thought broke my heart all over again.

When the Queens and I moved, I would very randomly get my Sports Illustrated. Big A and I were quite sure that the neighbor living in his dad's condo was taking it. We spent a lot of nights plotting big plans on how to catch him.

Then, one morning, as I was loading them into my car, the neighbor said, "Hey, wanna know a sign that the apocalypse is gonna happen"?

Except he pronounced "apocalypse" like: ap-ock-al-lips-see.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Big A, smelling blood, stepped out of the car. "This Weeks Sign That the Apocalypse is Upon Us" is a small box in Sports Illustrated that features some remarkably idiotic act or quote by an athlete or someone prominent in athletics.

He rattled off something, to which I said, "Huh. I used to read that in Sports Illustrated, but I never get mine anymore." And I got into my car to face an extremely disappointed Big A.

Big A: Mom, you had him! Why didn't you just tell him you know he's been taking your magazine! He didn't even say the word right!

Me: Something about having read somewhere that the true sign of power is having the ability to crush someone and not wielding it.

Big A: Yeah, well you won't be reading that from Sports Illustrated. Don't ever talk to me again about busting him. Ever.

My Sports Illustrated came in the following week, and there was no Rick Reilly on the back page, which made the other pages a little less readable.

And so, back to last year, there A sat, telling me that Rick Reilly was going to be writing for ESPN. I ordered the magazine.

And called her every.single.time. it arrived in my mailbox without one Rick Reilly featured within it.

And then, one day, there he was, on the back page, a beautiful article about his father and golf and faults and lessons.

The thing is, the point of this entire post is, that was the last moving article I've read by him. I haven't torn out any back pages and taped them to the fridge. He's written things that have been funny (and I get self-deprecation and laughter as a shield, I really do) but nothing that resembles the man I loved to read.

Now he writes a lot about things big sports stars have said to him, how he had fun hanging with Lance Armstrong or Kobe Bryant, or how he totally sucked on his ESPN TV debut or how he was a mess announcing a horse race, but nothing about the little people so much anymore. Like we don't even exist in his new world.

I'm going to re-order ESPN, one more time. I'm going to give it one more year. Everyone deserves a shot at redemption, right Rick? Better yet, your chance at redemption includes helping out a school that my nephew, who loves baseball more than life, attends.

Please, make good on it. For all of us little people.

To A, My Sister, Whom I Slept With

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:07:00 +0000

"Write," She says. "When are you going to write?" And so, I am going to write, Andrea. Write the things that go through my head of late. Things of you, things of I, things or our children, our lives, our loves.

So there we were, you and I and Mom and the typical courthouse players, and you were called to the stand and I flinched in my seat and stared intently at you.

"This marriage is broken beyond repair, correct?"

A nod from you.

"And this marriage was established on July 4, XXXX, correct?"

"Yes, that is true."

"And from this marriage, you bore two children, did you not?"

And there it was, the deal breaker. The moment you reached for your tissue and the minute I stood to rise while mom's hand held mine down. And I thought, "I hope my daughters love one another as much one day."

And yet you made it, standing, younger again in your years.

And our lunch: "How, how do they do that?" I know I can say that to you anytime, anywhere and we shall both love and laugh and remember.

And then today, back to the grind. Your classes, my clients, my freaking' I.V. into the whole bone marrow thing. P.S., it sucked worse than I planned on. Which, knowing me, you know was worse than well, a lot.

First, there aren't any like, numbing agents. OK, remember how when you're pregnant and you read the books and you are in a state of total shock and go, "Um, no fucking way am I shitting on a table in front of strangers", so you decide to not eat three weeks before your due date, but then your damn kid shows up way early? And you've already explicitly stated that you will never, ever, lay on all fours, bare ass in the air, allowing strangers to stare at your crotch? And then how when the moment arrives, you're all like, "I don't care, put me on international live t.v., but remove this being from my body?"

It was pretty much like that except without a cute little life to take home with you except yourself and your life ain't looking all that cute, so pretty much, it doesn't really count.

And then you have to go to Kroger's with the societies unwanted shopping and are told by a vagabond to be careful with that Soy Milk, "it gives men titties." I didn't respond. What do you say to that? To someone so obviously desolate and alone?

And how I think about all the times we'd fall asleep together listening to Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With night after night and laughed at the reality of it all--the beatings, the threats, the pleas.

And how I wish that we lived closer. Like next to each other, not just in mind and heart, but shared a fence and yard work and could grow old together and argue over whose Depends were whose.

Mostly, Andrea, I wish you love. A love as fierce as the love that I have for you. I wish you Story People each day and laughter each night.

Mostly, Andrea, I wish you hope. A hope that you know how much I love you. How much I'd do anything for you. A hope that you believe in hope.

Mostly, Andrea, I am buoyed by the belief that somewhere along the line that you recognized that on those nights we spent huddled together in our bed, our souls were out dancing, intertwined in ways that they couldn't extract themselves and came back to us, more whole than they ever were.

I love you. You make me proud. You inspire me. You are a wonderful mother. You are my best friend. You are my silver cord.

Here's the Story of the Day:

Silver Cord

connected by a silver cord that hums with sadness the further it is stretched

Goodbye, Again

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 15:46:00 +0000

I don't know how to write about today.

If there are words for this kind of sorrow, I've not learned them yet.

I've willed her to go quietly in the night, but the constant companion and faithful friend that she is, she remains. Not who she once was, but still, who is?

I've finally come to a point where I cannot watch the indignity of what is to come any longer and cannot accept the pain in her life to delay pain in mine. Our vet will be here tonight, after her clinic closes, so that Jessie can be home with us when she leaves this world and so much of my world leaves me.

Until then, she and I are heading outside and taking in this perfect fall day together like we've done so many times in the past 16 years, slower, with less ground covered, but together, until Goodbye.

Five Feet Tall

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 04:30:00 +0000

We've begun a tradition in our home: on the first of each month, we measure the Queens. Today, HRH measured them while I was at work and I heard the reports at dinner.

Little A: Yep. I weally tall ta-day. Wike so tall. Hey, Ma, 'member when I was a wittle girl and I went outside and I picked up 'da 'fing and 'den 'dere was a bird and I want ta go see Smoosh in Doggy Heaven, Ma, 'cause I miss her so much and you sayed 'dat she was 'dere and 'den I had-ed a dream and she was 'dere! And 'dere was so many dogs 'dere! And 'dey was so happy, Ma. Yep. 'Dey all had wings and Smoosh is gonna fly down from Heaven and see us. Yep. I tall ta-day Ma.

Big A: (Staring, appalled at the complete lack of structure and point in the above mentioned update) Well, I'm five feet tall.

Jesus Christ, what was that? No, what the hell was that? I recovered quickly from the sound of something moving within and looked to HRH for confirmation. "Is she really that tall"? He was cautious with his answer--he's smart--he knows any answer could be the wrong one. "Yes," spoken softly, gently; a scream whispered.

- - - -

I don't think that I wrote about my panic attack? How I calmly said I was going to drive myself to the ER, for I was certain I was having a heart attack and about to die and my feet and hands kept turning pure white and aching and I was sure that it was because my blood wasn't flowing properly and I kept telling myself that nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, but my heart kept racing anyways and I could.not.breathe. and since I was able to tell myself that I knew I could physically breathe but still couldn't breathe, then I was probably in the throes of death and I should just get to the ER and hope I arrived in time for them to save me and I did and as I sat unable to stop wringing my hands and tapping my chest the doctor told me that no I wasn't dying that day and no I didn't have any auto-immune disease that was causing my feet and hands to do what they were doing and what I was suffering from was not a heart attack, but an anxiety attack and this is what sometimes happens to people who are under stress--are you under stress--are you depressed--have you had any life-altering changes lately--and a bitter laugh escaped with my tears and you should see your family physician and take these Xanax and you should try to sleep? No, I didn't mention that?

- - - -

That's probably because I'm ashamed of it, I think. Ashamed that I have this beautiful life and yet I cannot quit crying a lot of the time.

I remember the day that it started; it was cold and wintry and the sun was very bright and I was sitting on a bed, trying to weep quietly so as not to disturb anyone outside the door, but my niece came in anyway and soon HRH was up there, inquiring.

And for the first time ever, I was enraged with his concern, (my grandfather is fucking dead! can i not sit here and cry if i fucking want to! do i have to explain every detail of my goddamn life to everyone! can i not just have a few moments of peace where i can cry and not answer to anyone!) but I didn't say so. Instead I mumbled something and I buried it within me, and at times now I think that on that day, at that moment, I planted a seed and a monster has grown from it.

I had to keep myself in check, for Big A's eyes were upon me--if I acted as I wanted to, it would scare her. It would make her weep harder. It would make her ask questions that I couldn't answer.

And so we drove to the church that day, and I wept silently in the front seat as she and HRH chatted and I sat in the pew and dug my nails deeply within me and bit my lips and pushed away the hand that was trying to hold mine because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I held it instead.

About a month later, one day I was checking my email and realized that, no, there would be no more messages from him; I hadn't even really been aware that I was still looking for them. I tried, I really, really tried to stay focused on the good, on all I had, on the memories--but at the end of the day--actually, the beginnings of the days, for that is the only time I could cry, protected by the sound of the shower and the fan and the closed door--the loss was a truth I didn't know how to face: I'd never lost someone that I had loved so much. I didn't know how to explain that I was sadder now than I had been then, and so I explained nothing.

It was a few weeks later that I got hurt and it took almost six weeks before I could have surgery, so in that time, I could blame my state on the pain--it was searing--and the drugs--they altered me. The length of my recovery and the well-documented pain that I would be in during that time provided an additional crutch for my tears...you'd cry too if you were in this much pain! You'd cry too if you had to take these medications! You'd cry too if you wanted to get off the medications and were dealing with withdrawals! You'd cry too if you had to go to rehab and be unable to even move your arm to your side! (You'd cry too if you weren't really sure why you were crying.)

- - - -

And then Smoosh died. And the hours that followed: the screaming, the weeping, the frantic calls to my mother, the call to my sister where I just sat wailing into the phone, the call to my other sister, who brought out drugs, sweet drugs, and tried to hold my hand that I needed to keep twisting the fabric of my pants with in order to keep breathing and who had to sit with me on the floor as I told her the awful, gruesome details that I will not repeat ever again, to anyone, but for some reason needed to keep telling her, over and over, even though I knew each time I said them that it was causing her physical pain, and finally, the the last recollection of that day, her saying to HRH, "This hopefully will knock her out," as I swallowed another pill and prayed for the dark.

I stayed in bed for days. I don't remember them, but I know I did. I remember going in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, thinking to myself, "I need to brush my hair," and then saying aloud to the image looking back at me, "Fuck off." And I went back to bed.

- - - -

And finally, two weeks ago, I took Jessie back to the vet. She won't quit pacing. Her breathing is rapid. She is in a state of nearly constant panic. I wanted medication to calm her. I wanted stronger pain medications to ease her.

I couldn't stop weeping.

"I think you've really got to consider helping her out soon," she said as softly as possible, her hand on my shaking leg. "I know, it must seem unbearable right now, but I know how much you love her and that you want to do the right thing by her."

"It's too much," I sobbed into the phone to my mom. "It's too much."

- - - -

And so I went home that night, and I rolled a medication bottle in my hand. And I debated with myself over and over and over again. And I put it back in the drawer where I had stored it, and picked it up again a few times.

And ultimately, I opened it up and I swallowed a pill. And I smiled a bit when I thought to myself, "Tom Cruise would so not approve."

- - - -

And so that brings us back to tonight and a scream disguised as a whisper, one daughter rambling of her bygone days as a 'wittle girl, another daughter five feet tall, a husband on edge, afraid to give a simple answer of, "yes," and a woman absorbing that confirmation, not by getting up from the table and going into the bathroom to weep, but instead by smiling a wistful smile and thinking, "I can do this."

- - - -

Big A is five feet tall.

I miss my grandfather.

Big A is five feet tall.

I miss Smoosh and everything about her and I wish I could erase the memory of her last minute on this earth, but I can't.

Big A is five feet tall.

I don't want to let go of Jessie.

Big A is five feet tall.

I need to show her how to stand as such, and I cannot do that from my knees.

Big A is five feet tall.

But I am taller. For now. And I'll be damned if she thinks that just because she's going to be taller than me someday that she will ever beat me at a game of hoops.

- - - -

Game on, 2009, you miserable bitch of a year. I'm gonna go barn-style, old-school: no blood, no foul; no clock; first one to "mercy" loses. Let's just see which one of us is standing on January 1st of next year--if I were you, I'd put my money on the chick with the white high-top Puma's who has a kid that's five feet tall.

Signs, Hope, Angels-Not Always What We Think

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 00:29:00 +0000

All around us, I know that they are; I just forget that sometimes, especially lately.

Remember him? It's OK, I wouldn't blame you if you'd forgotten--he'd crossed my mind now and then, but as of late, mostly then. I happened to check an old email account yesterday when I came across this message that had been sent to me two days ago:

On Sat, Aug 8, 2009 at 9:37 AM, wrote:

Hi Jenn,

I am sorry if I am wrong but I think you were they Good Samaritan that picked me off of US 127 heading south sometimes around June 2008.

I was going to the court in Ithaca and my engine blew up. I was driving a navy blue Audi Quattro car. You stopped and not only did you take me to Ithaca but you went inside the court house with me to testify as to the fact that my engine did blow up. This was something I will live to remember!!!!

I was going through my files this morning and I saw a complementary card which I guess was the same one you gave me at the court house when you were leaving. If you were not the person I am thinking you are, I am sorry to have bothered you.

I wish you a nice weekend.

After I quit crying, I messaged him back, to which he replied:

Hi Jenn,

I am so glad we were able to reconnect after such a long time. You know people talk about Angels as if they are invisible entities. You were my Angel that day and the fact you went inside the court house with me was like a miracle. I strongly believe in what goes round comes round. There is nothing I can do for you that can repay your good did. No money, which unfortunately I don’t even have (lol) would be enough to show my appreciation. Everywhere you go, I wish you compassion and favor in multiple folds of the one you showed toward me.

I read Physics at both undergraduate and graduate but presently taking graduate classes in Computer Science to have another graduate degree in Computer Science. I also work as an IT person with the District Library. If you ever need my assistance in any way or form, please do not hesitate to let me know.

I also hope we’ll keep the line of communication opened.

Signs, angels, hope--all around--turns out maybe I wasn't the savior that day.

Gone.

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 15:18:00 +0000

Yesterday, she was here. Today, no matter how many times I've begged it not to be so, she is gone.

I know, of course, that when you get to the age 0f 16 and you are classified as a dog, each moment is a gift. It's just that while I knew that the time left was small, I assumed that the goodbye would be on my terms; when I was ready, when I was able to know absolutely in my heart that letting go was the only honorable option left.

This was not meant to be.

If I told you her story before yesterday, before that moment, I would tell it to you laughing, as would anyone who knew her. She always looked like she was smiling, her tail was always wagging, she was still certain that she could field her duck that she caught mid-air each time it was thrown, and for the most part, she did. She still wrestled with the pups like she was one of them and she still lolly-gagged with Jessie like the true companion that she was.

After dinner, I walked outside to give her and Jessie their medicine. She was on her bed in the garage. I petted her head, rubbed her ear and said, "Oh, Smoosh". I gave Jessie her medicines and sang, "Jessie is a beauty queen" while I waited for her to swallow. Then I went back into the house to get Little A's P.J.'s on and stand at the window and wave goodbye to Gram and Gramps.

Three, maybe five minutes passed. I heard a yelp--the sound that Smoosh makes when the pups have caught her and she is telling them to back off. I started to the door with a smile on my face, until I heard my mother-in-law scream. I dropped Little A and ran down the stairs as she was running in, "Don't go out there." "No! No!" I screamed as I hit her arm and pushed her out of my way, stumbling out into the place where I saw Smoosh lying by their tire.

HRH grabbed me and said, "No", but I pushed him and dove to the ground and finally crawled to the spot where she laid, her last reflexes leaving her body. "DO SOMETHING!" I screamed at him, "Please! Please! No, Please do something!" I took her broken body and tried to put it back together with my hands, thinking, of course, that somehow, this would mend her.

I don't know how long I laid there, sobbing on top of her, begging God, damning God, saying no, saying please. Later I was told that our neighbors had come running over; they had heard my screams, but I don't remember that happening.

HRH went to get a blanket and carried her into the garage as I stumbled behind them. Little A went with her grandparents and I began to search for the things that needed to be with her when she finally was placed to rest.

I found her pink afghan my mother had knitted her, easily located her yellow, tattered duck-it was right under her bed-and found some pictures of the three dogs together. HRH and I went outside to find a spot to bury her; he carried my unwilling body to a couple of different spots, but we both knew where she belonged. In the circular part of our drive, each day when we arrived home, there she would be, laying under the trees in the grass.

The world began to weep and HRH dug her grave in the rain as I whispered my final goodbye to her. I wrapped her in her afghan and my blue Michigan blanket, with her duck tucked between her chin and chest. Jessie nuzzled her, one last time, then slowly made her way to the furthest part of the garage. I kissed her one last time and covered up her sweet face as HRH and I laid, sobbing, over her; neither of us able to comfort the other.

He carefully lifted her up and carried her to her grave. On our knees, we placed handfuls of dirt above her, shards of myself ripping from me and falling to the spot where she laid, then we buried her there. Rather, HRH buried her there as I sat on my knees and sobbed.

I want to tell you something happy about her. I want to tell you something to make you smile. I want to tell you that everyone she met said she was the happiest and sweetest dog they'd ever seen. I want you to know that she was always smiling, and I need to remind myself of this to get through the days that lie ahead.

God Speed, Smoosh.

I will love you until the day that I see you again.

And Then There Were Three

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 02:44:00 +0000

In this photo: HOPE. Alive and well.

*******

Approximately three weeks ago in our state, All-Star tournaments started.

120 teams suited up and took the field in the hopes of going to the state finals and fighting for the chance to be called "State Champs".

Three of those teams are left now.

I thought that I knew a lot about parenting. I thought that I knew a lot about life. I thought that for the most part, I wanted time to stand still so that I could have my children be children always, even though I knew this wasn't possible.

I thought that over this past six months, I'd cried myself out. I thought I had nothing left in me, no matter how happy or sad.

I've been wrong before, but never so wrong.

Today was one of the happiest days of my life, watching Big A's team win.

Pieces of my heart are scattered across softball fields everywhere, and the same remains true not with just my sisters, but with so many members of my family. It felt like with each play made, they were returning bits of myself to me.

They must win each time game that they play now in order to march on. During the game that they lost, I was furiously chatting on my Blackberry with my sister A, detail by detail, including counts on batters. It was down to our teams last at-bats and they were down by two.

I was standing alongside the fence, moving back and forth, trying not to cry when I read this message from A:

The boys have on their rally caps. And then an image, right to my heart, from 500 miles away, I could see them. Then the next message: And we have our shoes on the wrong feet.

Because they can't get cell service in their house, those three sat in her car in the driveway for the entire game and wept with me at the end when Big A's team fell into the loser's bracket.

During the game tonight, 500 miles away, A and her children and my niece again assumed their positions around her phone. It was an inning by inning battle; again I paced and typed. They would score, their opponents would score. This continued inning after inning.

Finally, the last inning arrived with Big A's team up by 2. "We need 3 outs", I typed.

With two runners on and two outs on the scoreboard, I didn't think I would be able to take one more breath, then finally, the final out. Our girls advanced again.

"WE WON!" I sent to the faithful fans assembled around a phone so very far away.

"You should have heard me and the kids praying together in the car", A typed.

"I did." I replied.

And I did.

Somehow, across all those miles and somehow, through all of the dust and dirt and tears, there they were, right next to me, staring down a dream--a dream that we've each dreamed for ourselves, and a dream that belongs to each of us now as this magic summer continues.

120 teams.

Three remain.

Go, Girls, Go!

No More

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 01:01:00 +0000

The thought startled me upon its arrival; appearing without so much as a warning, then taking up room to stay for what appears to be an extended period, easing its way into what was left of the peaceful ruminations in my mind.

I've met the point in my life, I am certain, where if time stopped tomorrow, I would be quite well with it. No longer do my tomorrows hold promises of something new and exciting, or even, honestly, anything that I greatly anticipate or look forward to.

I recall, with great detail, as a child how time was met with such an eager force; the special days on the calendar marked with bright circles: my birthday, the first day of school, Christmas. I also recall, with great detail, the first year that I dreaded the holidays and willed myself to not feel as such. Truth be told, they've been a lie since that year, I just try to fake it for my family. If I could have anything for the holidays, it would be simple innocence again. It would be to believe, if just for a minute, again, with the faith of a child, in anything.

High school brought dreams of college, college brought dreams of a career and family, and those things have led me here, to this moment, in my home, cruelly aware that what lies ahead will never be better than what I have today.

Please don't try to dissuade me otherwise; this is my truth; you may have your own if you'd like, but I know this as certain as I know me.

I am mercilessly aware that without fail, if time continues to be mostly kind and my children continue to thrive, one day soon, Big A will awaken and be taller than me. It will happen as it did the morning that I reached to her wrist to kiss the last of her baby fat, only to find it gone, leaving in its gaping wake a gasp and sob and a woman weeping in the shower who had to leave two meetings that day in order to compose herself.

Little A will become not so little and there will be a day, somehow, despite my strongest wishes otherwise, that I will no longer be able to hold her to me. I will reach to pick her up and it will not be possible and I will try to smile and make light of the fact that she has grown so much as my heart will be breaking into a thousand pieces inside of me.

My two aged dogs will one day very soon, most likely be leaving this home that they have made with me for the past sixteen years, and I am telling you simply: I cannot bear this thought. I will be wrecked, permanently; scarred in ways that will not heal.

My career cannot get better, at least not to me on the levels that matter. My accomplishments are enough, what I want, what I want so very badly is to have this life, for life.

I think of my grandmother, who within this year alone has already buried her husband and two brothers. I think of my grandfather still and cannot remain composed; it is an ache, a wound, a missing piece that I am beginning to recognize will not come to be filled.

I cannot help but think of the progression of time; I've many close friends that have lost their parents. Someday--a world without my mother? No. This is not something that I can bear to fathom, and yet each morning when I turn the pages in my planner, that day is closer.

One day there will be no longer five of us siblings. That day is closer most likely now than our childhoods. That thought is horrifying and I cannot escape it, no matter how hard I try.

I try to speak of the beauty of the world to my kids, the gratitude I have for our lives, the love that I have in my heart, and the words come out not as words, but tears. I stare out the window into a place that doesn't exist anymore, HRH asking what I'm thinking about. I'm afraid to answer that I'm thinking of how I miss sleeping with my sister and the sound of her laughter and the comfort of knowing that she was there, even on the nights that I hated her deeply for being such.

I am, most likely, by some outsider and all insider accounts, a verifiable mess. Big A said to me the other day, "Let me know when you're done with your mental breakdown," as I stood sobbing in the kitchen over the thought of nothing in particular, but time in general.

The best, friends, is no longer yet to come.

The best lies asleep in their beds at this moment.

The best sits next to me under our willow tree as we watch the dogs and girls run about.

The best lives in my memory, riding the imaginary school bus in our hallway, towels used as our flowing hair.

The best lives spreading out a blue flowered quilt under the summer sun with a picnic basket and reading to me repeatedly storybooks.

The best exists within Tiger Stadium, not Comerica Park, the 1984 Tigers running rampant around the bases.

The best drives a red lumber truck down a dirt road that exists no more.

Time, you son of a bitch. If I thought it would make a difference, I'd beg and plead and bolt my doors and rip the calendars from my walls and smash the clocks with my clenched fists. But knowing that you are as merciless as you are steady, instead I will continue to try to smile through whatever it is that is happening to me, and hug my Queens and express my gratitude for what I've been given in this lifetime. You've broken my heart and I'm going to wear it on my sleeve, a warrior's badge, tattered and torn, but still mine to wear. You won't take that from me as well.

Dear Big A: A Letter From Your Adoring Mother

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 18:40:00 +0000

Dear Big A,

As you're gearing up for your big game tonight, there are a lot of things I'd like to tell you, but I don't think that I can say them without losing myself in a sea of tears, so I'm writing them instead.

I want to tell you to swing for the fence, each time, unless you are supposed to sacrifice for the good of your team.

I want to tell you that if you strike out, make eye contact with the pitcher, nod your head, and run back to the dugout.

I want to tell you that if you see a ball coming at you and you think, "No way", dive anyways. Sometimes you might miss it, but sometimes, you won't. It won't be the missed catches that haunt you, Big A, it will be the ones that you wonder about--wonder what would have happened if you'd tried.

If you're going to slide, kiddo, slide with gusto. No half slides, no "Should I or shouldn't I"? Run as hard and as fast as you can and plan on sliding with everything that is bundled inside of you.

If, at the end of the game, things go as you hope and pray and you and your teammates see the last out called and can raise up a banner that reads: "State Finals Bound", don't forget about the girls on the other team that are going home that night without that banner. Look each of them in the eye as you shake their hands.

Just go for it, Big A. Go for it all, with everything that you have within you. You have no idea what this moment is, how could you? You are, after all, still a child. I am telling you, as an adult, as an adult that stands inside your room at night and stares upon your sleeping face, unable to figure out where the tears are coming from and where this thing called life is going so fast, that even I am unable to comprehend things until the moment has passed, even after all of these years. Or maybe it is that I can comprehend too much; I don't know anymore.

When I picked up your uniform this morning before I left, I held it to my chest, like I held you once, and I wished things for you, things that I probably didn't need to wish; you don't need magic when you are magic, but you don't know that yet.

When it's all said and done, no matter how the dust settles, I will still be amazingly proud of you and what you've accomplished.

Now, go get them, kiddo.

The world awaits.

All my love,
Your Adoring Mother

Bases and Fences

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 22:30:00 +0000

Sports is something that I rarely write about here, which is odd, since they taught me most of the lessons that I've learned throughout my life. They were also the tie to the first public introduction of me as an author.

We had been asked in a writing class in college to write a paper about the greatest betrayal that we'd encountered. Two weeks later, in front of a class of 300 of my peers, the professor said that many of the papers were very good, but that there was one paper in particular that in all his years teaching, stood out, because it didn't deal with human betrayal as one would assume.

It was at that moment that my face began burning and I murmured to myself, "please, no". He picked up my paper and began to read aloud the words that I had written.

I had recounted the last basketball game that I played on my home court as a senior. We needed a three pointer to go into overtime. Our coach called time-out and said to in-bounds the ball to me; I would make my shot and we'd go on.

It went according to plan, and as I launched to ball into the air, it felt right. I began stepping backwards, out of habit, to head back down the court, not inwards to rebound a shot that I knew that wasn't going in. I dropped to my knees as the ball spun around the rim and ultimately fell out while the buzzer rang.

Still, after all those years, I dream about that shot. Not that it would have catapulted us to greatness, not that it meant anything more than a different end to a game that mattered not at all. But that I was so certain it was going in.

I had made that shot so many times throughout my life: in the gym and in our backyard, the beam of the large yard light stretching across our cement court, in my grandparents barn. The one time that more than ever I wanted it to dance through the net with a quiet swish, it landed differently, and I had to get up of my knees and start something new after that. There were no time-outs or practices left. I had practiced for that moment, and I had failed. Life went on, and I needed to go shake the hand of my opponents and move on.

Last month, Big A had a ball tournament. It was hot that day, and I was sitting in the shade with some other moms there. Big A got up to bat and connected, hard, with the ball. I clapped as it landed in the outfield across from where I was sitting by third base.

She began running around the bases, and as I saw her looking at her coach on her way to third base, I expected her to slow down and hold up; I expected her coach to tell her to stop, to do the safe thing.

He didn't. "Go for it, kid!" he exclaimed, and Big A, her eyes wide, began to round third base.

I jumped up from my chair and ran to the fence so that I could run alongside her. I forgot about my arm and that I wasn't supposed to move quickly, and about the people watching, but I didn't forget about the fence between us--it was at that point in time merely a physical reminder of my limits.

I saw the throw coming in from the second baseman and thought, "She won't make it." And there was nothing that I could do, but watch her inevitable fall. She fell with gusto. She slid and banged herself up and was tossed out at the plate. And she arose with tears in her eyes and clutching her elbow and when she got back to the dugout I told her, "There's no crying in baseball. You were awesome." It was her pride injured, mostly, I think, not her arm.

Later on that night, I thought about that fence; about that moment. About what it meant to be a mother and the other fences that I will surely encounter along the way. I thought about what kind of mother I ultimately wanted to be.

Did I want to be the mother that stopped her child, congratulated her on a triple and tapped her on the helmet as she shook off her ball pants, or would I be the mother that, arms waving, shouted, "Go for it kid!" and turned to watch either a moment of greatness or a moment of temporary great defeat?

And in my heart, I knew the answer. And for the first time, I was grateful for fences.

And I reminded myself that I must heal my arm.

You cannot properly wave your child home if both of them aren't working.

Run, Big A, Run.

And The Band Played On

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 23:52:00 +0000

Sometimes, it seems to me that the smallest things; those that would appear insignificant; those that would give most people not even the slightest pause; those are the things that bring tears to my eyes and an ache to my heart.

I was heading into town tonight after work to go to the pharmacy; I'd been up since 2:00 this morning--awake all night while I replayed scenarios through my head; meaningless, of course, because the path has already been taken and I'm starting to realize that at some point, you just cannot turn back.

I pulled out of our driveway and started down our road when I saw a group of teens walking down the opposing lane, spreading fully across it. I slowed down as I neared them, I was so curious about what they were doing--there were six of them in total, three boys and three girls, I'm guessing between the ages of 15 and 16.

One of the boys carried a guitar, a girl carried a saxophone, another boy carried a pink helium balloon that read, "Get Well Soon". Since I was alone in the car, I didn't even need to try to mask my sobs.

My hope is that no matter what and no matter where, the recipient of those gifts will always, always carry with her the memory of opening her door and finding them there. My hope is that she will always have in her heart the music that they played. My hope is that no matter the roads that she wanders, she will know that she is never alone and that she was loved, greatly, and that this knowledge will carry her through even the darkest days.

And if I were going to write of things that I can't at this moment, I would say that after I passed them on my way back home and they waved to me, and my eyes connected with one of the girls that was walking, I would tell you that I walked in the door, checked my caller I.D. and email, pulled out my planner, took out an email that is ragged and has been softened from it's repeated removal and replacement in the place where I stored it, read it one last time with uncontrolled tears streaming from my eyes, folded it back in half and put it through my shredder.

And the band played on.

Four

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 02:03:00 +0000

Four.

Tonight you'll fall asleep a three-year old, and awaken to the morning sun a four-year old. Still my baby, you know. Always you will be.

Looking back, Little A, I cannot believe the road that we've come. That you've come; from a complete surprise to the complete world of so many. To think that once, I held your tiny little life in my hands, and now you hold mine within yours. Funny how the world works, isn't it?

You are the sun in so many skies, the smile on so many faces, the laughter in so many hearts. To know you, truly, is to love you.

Once upon a time, Little A, I was terrified at the thought of you; having not a clue how I'd manage you, take care of you, be a good mother to you. Once upon a time, I couldn't understand why.

Today, Little A, the "why" that I do not understand is how I have been so blessed. How God chose me to have you; how he gave me such an amazing gift. I thank Him for you so many times a day, little one. So many times.

And now here I am, on the eve of four, wondering how it is that just yesterday I found that I carried you within me.

I will always carry you within me, Little A.

Four. And four hundred times over.

Happy Birthday, Love.

Crushed

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 15:44:00 +0000

Today was Big A's last day of elementary school.

She got up and got dressed, chattering the entire time; excited about the day, excited for it to begin, excited for it to end, as I quietly watched the being before me.

She slipped into a pair of my shoes that fit her perfectly and twirled to the mirror before us, leaving in the wake of her joyful spin a mother only able to place a hand over her mouth to stop the sob she felt rising within.

It was yesterday, I swear, that she started kindergarten. Just moments ago that she slipped into my shoes and tugged at the hems of my skirts and looked up at me, eliciting laughter at the sight of her trying to walk in heels far too big for her.

It seems like just a month ago that I prepared her first lunch for her. Today she made it nearly on her own, truth be told, she would have been fine without my interference, had I not insisted on fumbling around in the kitchen with her, pretending to add things to her lunch, to make things better, to show her that there is usefulness in me yet, "You still need me, Big A, please, still do, because the day you don't need me, who will I be then?"

We drove into school together, a family. I thought of the day that I drove her into elementary school, just she and I, a long winding road ahead of us, having no idea what was in store for us. Today HRH drove as we listened to Little A's music and looked for the deer that are out each morning.

I wish I could ride there, in that car, in that moment, every day for the rest of my life.

We pulled up and Big A hopped out; all smiles and tallness and looking so grown, kissed Little A and was off--just as she had been that first day of kindergarten.

I recall watching her outside the door after she kissed me goodbye that morning; I remember that she never turned to look back; that she just ran forward. I remember hoping for her that she would always be as such--face forward, running to what lies ahead...that she would always have that confidence and security within her.

Today I watched her tall shape walk up the sidewalk and her friends smile and laugh and run up to her, and I waited, truth be told, for just one look back.

She didn't turn around.

It made me so happy that she never hesitated or paused, I could barely feel the pain of my heart being crushed inside my chest, until the tears streaming down my cheeks belied it.

The Small Things

ServingTheQueens@gmail.com (Jenn) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 21:21:00 +0000

There we were, eagerly unwrapping our ice-cream requests from HRH. Big A and Little A were sharing one red Adirondack chair and I was sitting next to them.

Little A held up her treat, blue eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear, "See what Daddy Bear gotted me? Do ya? It's so awesome! I so excited!" And then she placed into my hands an orange push-up that she needed help opening.

It happened that fast; within one moment--years were erased and existed no more. I was eight years old, climbing into a wood truck, eagerly anticipating stopping into the local store after a delivery of lumber to get my orange push-up, my smiling grandfather placing two quarters on the counter to pay for it.

And just as quickly, I was back. To that moment in those red chairs. To her blue eyes. To the knowledge that he is gone; the racing of my heart when I remember again that I've spoken to him and seen him for the last time.

It's still not real, you know. Oh, it's real enough when I choke back tears and clear my throat and walk into a different room to gather myself. It's real enough when I hear my grandmothers changed voice and read her letters speaking of emptiness that I don't want to know. It's real enough watching the Tigers and trying not to remember how many days of my youth were spent lying on my stomach, viewing the Tigers with my grandparents.

It is real enough.

And yet, I must remind myself of this frequently and I worry of what is to come. If something so large, something so true, is something that I must consistently tell myself of--what will life make of me later?

It's the small things, the little moments, that quietly sneak up and startle me. The blue of the sky, hearing a laugh that sounds like his, a blown save by a Tiger's relief pitcher, an orange push-up.

I've never lost someone that I loved so much, and yet I know that there will be greater losses. And the calendar days passing and my daughters so quickly growing do nothing to ease the fear that arises in me when I think of these things.

I try to capture time; to remember so much that it all becomes muddled and hazy--the things that I do remember are the small ones:

Big A's snarky comments, years beyond her age.

Little A's uncontrolled laughter anytime I squeeze her chunkins.

HRH laying side by side with me in bed, holding my hand all night.

A red wood-truck picking up a tow-haired girl at the end of her driveway.

I miss him so much. Still. In uncontrolled ways when I am honest with myself, sobbing in the shower.

And then I walk out of the bathroom, smile at the Queens and slide orange push-ups to the top of their container, all the while pushing down the small things that keep rising to the surface.