January, 2019
This has been “the winter on my discontent,” to quote the B
ard. The fact that I am writing in the past tense indicates to you, my readers, that I have not moved this space for recollection into the new year in a timely manner. I wondered if I would stop it. It’s been a decade, and this isn’t the first time I have let it lapse, although never so long. For the rest of winter. Until spring. But I have some photos, and I just wrote a tiny spring poem, so I have hope the dark days will pass, and hereby declare that this year my celebration will continue, just more irregularly. The format of the past will not define the future. I will celebrate in whatever way I can.
January began with the last days of family before they returned to their homes and lives. Bumper ice boats, a last celebratory dinner, a ride to the airport for B & the boys, while A drives my old car back cross country to their home. The tree is taken down, the orname
nts packed away, the sheets and towels washed and stored, the house now back to mine alone. With P, when he is here. Music rehearsals recommence. And walks with B. And weather and politics– neither of which helps lift me out of the post-holiday blues.
January goes on. P’s band plays a cool gig. I go, I listen, I chat, laugh, enjoy, but I feel like I am holding onto life by my fingernails, unable to crawl up on top of the passing days and bend them to my will. I find myself saying and thinking “this is not like me” alot. But of course it was me. It often seemed that it was actually time that was not like itself. It flitted, fled. I just let the photos talk for awhile.
And then it’s time for my son to leave. Hard to let him go. But family life these days is fleeting, treasured, but not “real.”
But there are great music concerts to inspire, with wonderful friends. Hamilton de Holande, Bill Frissel, the reunion of local heroes The Neon Valley Boys.
And in the midst of it all, Mom turns 99. There needs to be an appropriate celebration for this incredible milestone, but I am the only one left here to make that happen, so I drag myself out of my stasis and into my car, gather the necessary supplies, and head north. Mom rallies for the occasion and we have a lov
ely celebration. She does complain when I tell her this age is impossible to write backward– her usual trick for “changing” her age.
And then I get the flu, despite a shot. And feel bad and read alot. And try to think of a plan. Because I always have a plan.
But not now. The month ends with a trip in frigid weather to Boston for a second opinion on my eye issue. It is still hard, literally and philosophically, to look beyond myopic. Writer’s block continues, music is hard to play, inspiration not knocking either for words or music.
There are no poems waiting to post for Weeks 534-538.
December 31, 2018
New Year’s Eve. The grandboys enacting a moment from the “Child’s Christmas in Wales,” involving candy cigarettes and attitude. Let’s hope 2019 leaves us all better off politically than it found us.
December 30, 2018
And we make the pilgrimage to visit Mom. Her unit is just at the end of an influenza lockdown, but luckily we can see her, and bring her some presents. She is delighted by the little boys, and by all the attention. They love the face masks that they decorate with moustaches, and that we remove in the end for a final photo. We need two cars, so I get to drive up and back with my son, and we have a chance to catch up. Afterwards we stop by to see my brother and sister-in-law. A lovely day. I am so glad we pushed ahead and collected these memories for our futures.
December 29, 2018
The year rolls to a close. But ensconced with family and friends, I am saved from nostalgia by all the things to do and make and fix and offer up to those I love. Exhausting, yes, but I will have time to contemplate later, when the excitement is over, the family is far away, and I can savor what I am now trying to keep up with. I appreciate my Mom in retrospect for all she did to ensure our holidays at home were perfect. Today is “uncle day” for the grandboys, and their dad tags along, so my daughter and I can slip out for a relaxing lunch with a couple of glasses of wine to catch up on all of her doings, uninterrupted by things needing to be done.
December 28, 2018
The family is back and forth between my house and their dad’s. Their visits are the only time I get caught in the web of post-divorce bitterness. Mostly I never think about it, in my busy life full of music. But twined with the sense of loss– the ornaments by my friend Carleigh, who died far too young, the lack of my parents, the physical distance between me and my siblings– it is an unwelcome but inevitable added dimension to the holidays. We do what we can to celebrate, while keeping the loss hidden to spare those who don’t have to feel its weight.
week 533 ~ children whispering
children whispering
running down the stairs
hark as angels sing
children whispering
on Christmas morning
all magic is theirs
children whispering
running down the stairs
