Windows of time

Tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
I love what we do
In these windows of time.

I want to hear
Of your whole lovely life
The good, bad, and boring
And even your wife

I'll open to you
The things that you seek
I'll show my world
With no need for mystique

But don't be afraid
If some tears do sneak out
I feel it all deeply -
That's what life's about

So tell me your story
And I'll tell you mine
Take my hand and my heart
In these windows of time.

Not Little Women

There are 4 of us girls, babies our mother had, each from a different father. We don't look alike. We probably sound a little alike. But it seems we are each almost more like our fathers than our mother, in appearance anyway. I'm as white as they come; my two middle sisters are half Mexican, and the oldest is white like me. I'm tall; the oldest is very short, and the middle two are average height.

When we were little girls, we naturally spent a lot of time together. We were all girly girls. Christmas in our house was like Mattel threw up  - Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia everywhere. On holidays our mother would attempt to dress us somewhat alike. Our babysitter made us each a Holly Hobby doll, each according to our size. We each had a first holy communion in the Catholic church, complete with white dresses, tights, and veil.

When we fought, it was nearly always the middle two against my oldest sister and me. I don't know if it was because the middle two look alike and we didn't, or what. I didn't even realize my dad wasn't their dad until my parents split up. It just never occurred to me, even though they were brown. Their "real" dads were not a part of our lives, and I, an innocent kid never imagined they might have another father somewhere.

My sisters have always been a huge part of my life. From making me an auntie for the first time at age 13, to telling me about periods and boys, to sharing motherhood with me, they have been there. Of course with 4 girls there will be fights and drama; even with all of us in our 40s, that still happens. But beneath it all is love. You don't fight with people you don't love; it isn't worth the effort. At least, not for me.

We've all suffered our various trials, starting with losing our mother when I, the youngest, was 8 years old. And as we grew up, the tribulations added up. Mental illness, financial problems, abusive men, sick children. We've been through it. And yet, the four of us - we smile and shine. We laugh and drink and play. We tell the world, "Fuck it; I got this."

But make no mistake: we weep, we fall, we crumble, we melt. But the substance running through us, whatever that thing is that makes us wake up, take another step, another risk, another try -  there seems to be a lot of it. Because through our darkest fears, our scariest realities, our driest seasons - we keep going, loving, doing, being.

I love these women more than I ever knew when I was younger. They were my first best friends, my worst enemies, my tormenters and my protectors. They can take me down, bring up, sit beside me and hold me in a way no one else in this world can.

They are

My

Sisters.

A Brief Interruption

I won’t go back
To that place
Where I thought, hoped
That you might be
Him
I can’t erase
The things you said
Critique without
Compliment
Judgment without
Understanding
You only care
About You
You are the center
of Everything
Everyone
And when you’re not
the world is wrong
You fuck
and then judge
And let no one
Truly close
You delight in being vague
Your communication currency is
   Grey
       Or Twilight
          - Neither clear nor good nor bad, just
Undecipherable
So I ask questions
I open my heart
And you crush it.
Or at least…try.
But I know this:
I am better than that
I deserve more
I demand it
And someone luckier than you
More open than you
More loving than you
Will have the prize that is me.

I just don't know

A song I have been listening to over and over again lately (so much so that I spent an hour trying to pick it out on my piano and finally got some of it) is called Jericho, another song by Mary Chapin Carpenter. It is hauntingly beautiful, with nothing but a piano accompaniment. But the words, as usual, are what gets me...and especially the very last line:

"For if love is a labyrinth, then my heart is Jericho."

That has never been me. But given my circumstances lately, I wonder if it is. But maybe I need a little bit of Jericho to protect me in the labyrinth.

The problem is I don't want protection. I want the twists and turns and dead ends and peril that makes the glorious prize at the end worth it. And I want someone who feels the same.

Grief

I don't know what got me to thinking about grief the other night. For a long time, it was just so much a part of who I was, that I didn't think to name it: grief was life. Life was grief. And then...then the rest of my life happened. And it really wasn't too bad: lots of additions, fewer subtractions.

I learned grief at such a young age: when I was 8, I learned my father had done some Very Bad Things. As a daddy's girl, it was devastating. And yet, I loved him. And this revelation came in the midst of my mother fighting breast cancer, which she ultimately lost. They split a few months before she died. A defining moment in my childhood, indeed.

Then when I married for the first time, I was lucky to have an amazing mother-in-law. I was ecstatic. I was sure that was my 2nd chance at having a mother. And not long after my wedding, she fell ill as well. Just over a year after my wedding, and 3 weeks after the birth of my first child, we lost her too. I was devastated. It was a good year before I didn't often spontaneously burst into tears, missing her.

And then...then a long time passed, with no serious losses. A divorce, yes, a loss. And grief. But not the grief that comes with  death.

And then my father died. To say our relationship was complicated is probably an understatement. But the things that happened when I was a child had dimmed in my memory; he was a wonderful grandfather and a good dad to an adult daughter. I couldn't have asked for more: generous, fun, kind, and had chosen a lovely partner who I am closer to than ever before. And then he left - far too soon. He was supposed to see his grandchildren grow up, and know his great-grandchildren. But he can't.

He.

Is.

Gone.

I was not prepared for how much I would miss him - for how his death would bereave me. Though his death was sudden, it shouldn't have been completely unexpected: he'd been ill off and on with various ailments. And during those times of serious illness, I thought in a way, I might be relieved if he died. But I have not, not for one minute since he passed away, felt relieved. All I feel is loss and grief, and the sense that he was not finished. WE were not finished. But we are, and I can't change that. I cannot put him back together, and hug him and talk to him and hear him shout "Jessie!" the way that only he could.

One thing I have learned is that grief will not wither on the vine. You can ignore it, you can pretend it doesn't exist, you can move on in smiles and jokes and trips to the grocery store and episodes of your favorite TV show. But grief will always find you.

It found me in the grocery aisle when  a Lynyrd Skynyrd song came on. It found me late at night when I found a selfie he'd left on the computer I inherited from him. It found me in a photo of him as a young man. It found me in the moments of my sons' lives when all I could think was, "I wish he was here." Grief finds you; do not be fooled that you can trick it into never unlocking your front door just because you've gotten on with your life.

A song I listened to over and over again shortly after losing my dad is called "Learning the World," by one of my favorite songwriters, Mary Chapin Carpenter. Mary gets it in a way that I wish more people would:

Grief rides quietly on the passenger side
Unwanted company on a long, long drive
It turns down the quiet songs and turns up the din
It goes where you go, it’s been where you’ve been

And pushing your empty cart mile after mile
Leaves you weeping in the wilderness
Of the supermarket aisle
And in the late night kitchen light it sits in a chair
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there

But it is, so it is and you ask
Are you predator or friend
The future or the past?

It hands you your overcoat and opens the door
You are learning the world again just as before
But the first time was childhood
And now you are grown
Broken wide open, cut to the bone

And all that you used to know is of no use at all
The same eyes you’ve always had have you walking into walls
And the same heart can’t understand
Why it’s so hard to feel
What used to be true
What’s now so unreal

But it is, so it is and you say
I wish I were the wind so that I could blow away

Grief sits silently on the edge of your bed
It’s closing your eyes, it’s stroking your head
The dear old companion is taking up air
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there.