Shit happens, and I learned an expensive lesson. But all is not lost! We finished up the night with a funny movie, and overall, I think My love’s mother had a fabulous visit. And, I think she likes me. But really, people… how could she not?
I want to walk barefoot on the grass.
I want to press my cheek against the warm concrete of a sidewalk, just as the sun begins to disappear over the horizon.
I want to lay back, smile and sigh. I think I might just do that… right now.
But it’s going to be hard to pull off the sidewalk thing, what with people all around… why do I care? I’m going to do it. The last time I felt warm concrete on my face I was a child, lying in the driveway of my house, loving the heat that the man-made rock-ground gave to my goose-bumpy arms. I remember wishing I could have every part of me touch it at the same time.
I guess that’s the dragon in me.
Word Processing and Sex Toys
Shit, I just made the mistake of glancing to my right — glimpse of dictator, just waiting for my thumb to slide the knob into the perfect red circle so that it can hold my voice, answering silly and redundant questions in legalese, just long enough to play back for the lovely woman who will type my words. You know, I insist on doing the typing, I ENJOY the typing. But, because it’s so much faster for everyone else to dictate, it’s assumed that this would also be the best method for me. It’s a damned good thing I like the sound of my own voice, and an even better thing that our lovely word processor doesn’t mind my ridiculous anecdotes between memos and letters. I do it for the knowing look in her eyes when my finished documents are delivered. Ah, the simple things in life.
The sex-toy party was cozy, intimate. You do NOT understand the restraint I showed by not walking out with some phallic-buzzing-item stashed in my purse. I’m such an exemplary citizen and sex-toy party participant. But now I know where she lives, and I know where those toys are. And I just can’t make any promises that I won’t be back there, sneaking around and trying the door handles (to see which one is OPEN, you pervert, not for anything else, I mean, a door handle is a FAR cry from a parking meter).
A few weeks ago, my grandmother died. I hardly batted an eyelash, and even the one batted was more for the guilt I felt for being happy about it. Here we are, though, exactly two years from the day I woke up to find out that Jeffrey was one of the firemen that was in the building that collapsed, and the slightest reminder brings tears to my eyes. Of all the things I feel like I control, I never pretended to believe that I could control my emotions.
Some of my family is at Ground Zero today, paying respects, remembering, reliving, mourning. Like so many other innocent people, doing their jobs in the building, Jeffrey died while doing his. His body wasn’t found at first. My cousins searched Ground Zero every day, finding unspeakable things, pieces of people, fragments of life in the rubble. They didn’t wear masks. They didn’t miss a day. They were exhausted, but driven to find him. Candles were lit, prayers were recited, and finally, a month later, a funeral was held. After the funeral, his body was found, crushed, along with a handful of other firemen and a few civilians. Closure.
I wrote about it then, and as I write about it now, I see the story hasn’t changed. The family is torn apart. People are angry, devastated, stuck. Unable to heal or let go, but how can you blame them? I’m distraught with the pain and the memory of the entire tragedy, the loss of a cousin I loved, the pain of going back to see where it happened, the sadness of the ceremonies. I’m able to move on and let go. Things might be different if he had been MY son, if it was one of MY sisters. So I can’t urge them to “move on.” I can never understand that level of suffering. Though mine is true and real, I would never think to compare it with the vast depth of torment that my aunt is experiencing. That my cousins are experiencing. I can’t imagine the trauma. I feel for my family. I want for them to continue to live and laugh as if Jeffrey were still here.
But he was the one who always made everyone laugh. I don’t have any answers. I know that thinking about it makes me cry. I know that I feel pain and loss and sadness. I know that nothing can bring him back. I know that he liked to see us laugh. I know I wish to see my aunt laughing again, to see the family together in laughter and love, which is how I grew up knowing them.
I know I need to stop typing about it, stop thinking about it, because I’ll never get any work done today if I continue to cry like this.
You’re GAY! Why, Thank You.
Speaking of gay, have you noticed that the definition of the word, “gay” is morphing? Yes, yes it is. Before, if you called someone “gay,” especially on the east coast, it was synonymous with “stupid,” “dorky,” etc. But recently, I am seeing “gay” used as a complimentary word. For example, the “gayest heterosexual.” My straight male friends take it as the highest compliment when others think they are gay (in the homosexual sense). Why? Because now, being gay is associated with having style, looking good, feeling good, being outrageous and free, and being surrounded by that rare breed of women who are not only beautiful, but also FUN. See what I mean? You KNOW it’s true.