Loss

Attended a memorial service for a person who was only a friend for a short time, as I met her just a couple of years ago.


The last time I saw her, she looked more worn than tired, surrounded by other people who had not seen her for some time, who had known her longer.  I didn't try to make my way through everyone to wish her my best until her recovery.  She had been in the hospital several times even since I met her, diagnosed with a terminal illness.  I was in denial that it was just another bump in the road for her, and that I would see her again.


We hadn't even made eye contact the last time she was around, though I tried.  We'd had a number of rich conversations before her more recent round of hospital trips, and had become friends.  I know in reality our friendship was shallow in comparison to relationships she had with others, though there was a special connection.  As much as anything I'm still dealing with taking for granted I would see her again, in addition to her passing, which was not untimely, though no less difficult to bear.


I cried almost all day, from the time before the service began into the night.  I saw photos of her in a slideshow, where she looked more like a sister than my own.  My sister and I are close, yet we look like opposite sides of the family, respectively.  This woman and I could have been fraternal twins.  We looked more alike than she and her sister as well.  Superficial, yet again, as our souls were on different planes at different times.


Our lives in New York before we met were astonishingly parallel, though I was a little less bohemian, and may not have noticed her in the village, while I got my street smarts in the middle and upper parts of the city. 


Vastly different as well was that she married happily, to a man fully aware of health limitations that would prevent her from bearing children, and that would require more of his attention than most men would buy into.  She would flicker in and out of health, her husband always on alert.  There were still many happy years, and no regrets.  It was a glimpse of what my life may have been like had I found anyone that were as tolerant or attentive that could remotely compare to my grandfather.  I may have a time or two, and sought the attention of more elusive or 'exciting' types instead; none of the latter turned out to be in my best interests, nor my family's.


I cried for a relationship I never had with a sister/friend or a man, from years of separation away from what matters.  It wasn't my fault; my choices were ignorant and conditioned.  The results were the same, however.  My joy has been my child (one thing my sister friend was not given), which is a bigger than life God given consolation and gift, more than I could have wished for in a child, yet not without tremendous pain as well, though not from the child: An education in realities I didn't know existed until thrust into a world as a last resort where human life has little value, and staying alive and protecting your child takes almost everything you have, in resources, strength, and health.


Her first name was identical to my middle name as well.  We bonded instantly, and I unrealistically felt she would always be around, at least until my son left for college, when I would have to go with him, parting ways with being close to her in proximity then.  I was wrong.  It was an illusion.  And a reminder that tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us.

Paper Airplane Maestro

Who knew (though why not), the skill of paper airplane craft would be a welcome challenge to my child. A lesson was learned after a lifetime of being aware of only the most traditional models, that there were a significant number of possible variations that could as easily become airborne, if not moreso that those with pointed ends.

As usual, he requested I watch the entire process as he demonstrated his favorites, one or two of which he had memorized and was quite proud of. I was impressed very much in addition as I witnessed the options of several forms he had adeptly created from the examples in a book he had gotten as a gift become aloft.

He later dictated his homework and as I assisted as his typist he created a miniature fleet from paper he found in the room as gifts for me. One that he had improvised as yet another original variation of his own he asked if I minded he keep, asking if I was disappointed that the more special one was not added to what he had assembled as my exclusive collection. I said I didn't mind; all that mattered is that he was satisfied and happy with the manifestations of one of his many talents, this one being the newest.

It's Halloween; he'll be a character of his own creation with lots of fake blood and 'scar tissue'. When he was a pirate I did his makeup. The black nail polish he originally requested was too much for him once he saw it applied to one fingernail; what was left along the perimeter of two nails looked appropriate from the costume I was informed would be put together later. This year for once, I wasn't requesting a photo, which in the past was not offered or delivered anyway. I might have discouraged it altogether if we had been together for the rest of the evening, though a boy this age has to do the undead zombie at least once, I suppose.

He always comes through in the overall; what is dominant cannot be done away with completely, so long as he stays true to himself and who he is: a gift, in a constant process of self-discovery, not afraid to show how he feels, whenever he can.