A place of my own.

Noise bombards me, children demand me. 

My time is not my own. 

I can medicate with electronic opium (in other words, TV)and get a few minutes peace, but the TV is only  two feet from my desk. 

No lock on the bathroom, or the bedroom. There is no place that is mine. Even the inside of my head is hijacked by paperwork, real estate, and  chaos.

How then can I be myself?  How can I create worlds when I can’t even survive my own? 

It is temporary, and I love the fun things we’re doing this summer. But a part of me can’t wait for our new house and a place to call my own.

Over the rainbow

During a drive the other day we saw some beautiful rainbows. Pictures, of course, cannot do them justice.   The kids were very vocal about wanting to chase the rainbows and find the pot of gold at the end.

 Being young they didn’t understand when I tried to explain that rainbows are elusive, that they represent the unattainable, the constantly searched for. There is no pot of gold, the real reward is in the journey, the dream. The oldest is only six, so it’s a concept a little bit beyond them. I can barely understand it myself some days. Some days I want that pot of gold and I want it now. Other days I’m okay with striving and longing for the reward.

 

There are days the rainbow feels so far away, and then there are the days you feel as if you’ve found your pot of gold. Most days are in-between, but each day is part of the journey.

RIP

On Friday my grandfather passed away. It was expected. We’d been waiting and aware. In many ways it’s a relief to him and his caretakers. He’s no longer ailing and old.

And yet.

I didn’t expect it. He’d been hanging on so long I believe I’d begun to think it would never happen. That he would always be here.  As a teenager I helped do house and yard work several times a week. I spent a lot of time watching and learning from him. He lived next door to me and his home was my second home.

Many of my cousins and family have been posting remembrances of him on facebook. I can’t. 

I’m a writer. I should be able to put down a few words, a story of our time together.

And yet.

The words choke in my throat and I’m unable to push them out. How can I write what I can barely feel? How can words encompass a life such as his?

I worry that this makes me less. Less feeling, less worthy, less loving. If so, so be it.

I am what I am, and right now I am missing him.