So, I know I haven't posted in a long time. And well, life happens. This is more an expression of emotions that I can't verbal particulate rather than anything else..... So anyway, here's what's going on in the world of me.... I CAN'T FIND MY JOURNAL!!! It's causing me to slowly lose my mind and feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.... slowly toppling head over heels and unable to actually make a rational decision that isn't snappy want snarky..... I never thought losing a book would impact me so greatly... I guess that was before I found the perfect journal for me.... If you don't write, it doesn't make sense... the romance that happens with a good journal....The gentle caress of the pages as your fingers glide gently across them... how the cover kisses your skin, warmly embracing you, asking you to open up and breath life into it, begging for you to bear your soul on its pages..... How the pen glides effortlessly over the warm pages..... It's a love story in and of itself, it's a love that few will ever know, and those that do don't realize how deep the passion is until it's gone. And then they freak out and lose their mind and destroy their house until they've found the object of their affection, the only thing in the world that knows all the secrets, and holds them forever only to be revealed when given permission.....
With my life spiraling out of control, I just need to get somethings out. 6 months didn't heal my shattered heart, 2 years didn't do it either. My uncle died, he was buried at the same cemetery as my grandmother. I made the decision before I did my make up, that I was going to take a flower from the garden, flower bushes she had planted, and place it on Maw Maw's grave. I've only been able to visit her once, and it was exactly one year after her death. To the day. I took a self designed, hand tatted cross, steeled myself against the chill of the November 22 night, and placed it on her head stone hidden under flowers. It was a secret, something for us to share. Something that even in death, she would love, and cherish because it was something that I made especially for her and was the only way left that I could express my love for her. I decided Wednesday morning that I was going to take one of her flowers to her before my Uncle's funeral. I took a second one for my other grandmother that passed when I was in 3rd grade.
Daddy drove us to the cemetery, and to the funeral home. They offered to drop me at the grave side, but I knew it would be a difficult thing for me, so I opted to walk from the funeral home at the back of the property. Grandma's wasn't hard to place. I said a soft word, cleared the headstone and moved on. They 100 yards I walked thinking about when my brother and I were children, how we would run the space between the hedges and play on the statue of the saints as mom, dad, Mawmaw and Pawpaw would clear the graves and put new flowers on. We would always be careful not to step on the graves, I felt like I was squishing someone, still feel that way..... We would pay or respects early then run off.... Now the hedges are gone, it's a hard hitting marker of time. The cemetery has grown. So many loved ones laid to rest, my feet grudgingly moved me closer to the drive that would mark the entry to the area where my closest loved ones held their final resting place.... I didn't realize how far I had come, as my toes nudged the cement that separated me and that damned bench.
It took me, what felt like hours, but was most likely the exact same amount of time, to cross the 20 feet from the road to the grave as it did to walk 100 yards or more on a broken foot. I weaved my way around the headstones, and didn't have to look to know they were the resting places of my uncle Danny, My Uncle Robert.... and many other family members. I slowly, dragged my feet closer to the double maker that marked where my grandfather planned to put his mortal body to rest next to his love. The woman that so strongly impacted so many, the woman that single handedly put the fear of God into me. The woman who survived her son's death, her sister's lost battle with cancer, her mother's lost battle with dementia and old age. The woman who would move the earth and stars to give anyone anything they needed. A woman born in a time where family and love were all they had as a poor group of 5 siblings, and they flourished. A woman who could not sew her way out of a paper bag, but always looked her absolute best not matter what. The very woman who's death destroyed me, and so strongly altered something inside of me that I will most likely never recover, but will forever struggle to put one foot in front of the other want attempt to make her proud. She was my rock, she was my strength, she was my world. She loved unconditionally and unquestioningly. She was a true example of Christian love and acceptance, full of understanding and forgiveness. This woman who wasn't actually beneath my feet made it damn near impossible to lay a single flower on her grave. But, as I stooped down to lay the red Camellia, bent further to brush away a leaf I noticed a bit of grey under the new flowers my dad and step mom had placed. They were just discussing how they rotate the flowers and how they needed to put new ones on..... Tucked beneath the greenery that made up the filler at the bottom was a droopy, weathered hand tatted, custom designed, celtic cross I placed there. They had let us keep our subtle secret. No question as to if it were to stay on the grave, or if I wanted it visible. It stayed quietly tucked away. Once I recognized the lace weight yarn, tears filled my eyes. I promptly stood up, turned around and walked back in half the time to the funeral home. My cousin didn't know where I came from I appeared so quickly.
Family, family is one thing I have lots of. I might be low on money, short on time, and wanting in so many other aspects of my life, but I most definitely have family. I have it in spades. The two boys towering over me at the door would just as soon toss me in a freezing river fully dressed, just because they can, as fight someone because they hurt me. I took a breath, walked in and made my rounds quickly. There was someone who needed me and I knew it. Trouble was sitting next to his Nana who was greeting people, and being just as strong as any of her sisters would have been. I walked around, sat down and instantly JC and I fell into easy conversation about the stupid stuff some people were doing, things that he wanted to slap, people that needed respect, and other things that we always talk about to diffuse a situation. For the next few hours, I was in constant physical contact with him. He needed strength and support more than I needed to let go and fall apart. Uncle Bob was nuts about Izzy. Before her you always got a hug and a "you need to visit more!" There was always a warm smile, and comforting welcoming words. After Izzy, it was a hug and "Where's my baby?!" She ruled his every thought it seemed. Even when Alzheimer's took his memory, stole his loved ones, and stripped him of his life, he asked for his baby. He knew that baby until his very last breath. They shared a love that is inexplicable. You had to see how she was drawn to him and he was controlled by her. It wasn't a manipulative thing, it was a beautiful laughter filled thing. She would sleep in his arms, she would eat in his arms. That baby's feet did not touch the ground if Uncle Bob was around, she was in his arms.
The service was nice, then they sang Amazing Grace. Izzy's bedtime song. Mawmaw's favorite song. Cue melt down #1. I never brought myself to look in the casket. That wasn't him. That wasn't the man that built houses with his own two hands. That wasn't the man that breathed life back into my aunt. That wasn't the man that made my daughter cackle like she had never laughed before. That was merely the shell that housed him, and I did not want to remember him like that, lifeless.
JC and I rode to the grave side service together, snarky remarks in full swing, making plans for later that night and the rest of the weekend. We both needed a drink and possibly something stronger that I would never be able to do.
That's when we saw them. The flag draped over the casket should have clued me in. His military service should have been enough for me to have known it was coming. Hell, even the girl in uniform sitting a few pews behind me across the aisle should have been a HUGE indication.... but nothing prepared me for the Army solider standing at attention, and then once everything and everyone was in place I started counting. And as if I were trained myself, timed exactly when he would step behind the casket, and again right on cue the song that forever breaks my heart. The bugle, the haunting solitude of the single bugle. Taps. Tears. Counting...... Lift and fold the flag.... Steadying breath..... Deep breath as the Honor Guard squats in front of my aunt... "On behalf of....." I lost it. I turned into JC and totally lost it. After a short word by our resident pastor of the family, and a prayer, I wiped my eyes, and the family was back to cracking jokes and collecting flowers.
And now, I can't find my journal and express any of this in the fluid stream of thought that I'm accustomed to. I can't grieve my puppy, my kids being in the hospital, impending divorce, sick kids, broken foot, lost family, and today my little sister in law gets in a wreck and scared the hell out of everyone. I need the warmth of my silver leather in my hands, and to let the soft cream pages seduce me until I have nothing left to give. I need my little 5x7 journal to take away the pain and be my parachute and stop this slow decent into madness, and stop me from losing my mind.
