friends and family

My Grief Lives in My Lungs

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Grief lives in my lungs.  My lungs temper my grief – keep me upright, keep me alive, keep breathing…putting one foot in front of the other.  Grief lives in my lungs.

I had quit smoking in the months before my dad died.  I had tried so many times to quit smoking and this time seemed to be working.  Oh sure, I had cravings, but I was managing them. 

My mother called, “Come quick. It’s an emergency.”  Part of me knew.  I stopped breathing.

And then, I went tearing down the hill after putting shoes on.  Normally I would have gone barefoot. I don’t know why the shoes. In case we had to go to the hospital? Part of me knew.

I was breathing hard by the time I got to the house. Shallow, unsatisfying breaths.  My father dead on the floor.  I quickly knelt and started chest compressions, went to blow air in his mouth.  Cold.  He was cold.

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First Kiss

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Gordon did a mean impression of Flip Wilson’s Geraldine.  He did.  I was always a sucker for a guy that could make me laugh. We were in sixth grade together and he was, of course he was, the class clown. He was a bit pudgy, had dark almost black hair, and big brown eyes.  He was taller than me – another trait I like in a romantic partner.  In sixth grade, it was hard come to find a boy my age that was taller than me. 

We were stationed at Camp Lejeune but living in town.  I was at a civilian school made up, primarily, of military brats.  Jacksonville was a very small town with absolutely nothing but 40,000 Marines.  My dad referred to it as the armpit of the world.

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Calypso

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It is cold as shit in here and I have a Calypso earworm in my head.  Daylight come and I wanna go home.  Like reggae, it’s impossible to be anything but happy when the music is blaring.  And blaring it is.  I want to go home — home where things are organized and orderly and sane.  I am home, but my home is anything but what I need it to be.  Still, I’m oddly cheerful.

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash

Greek mythology says Calypso was a nymph who kept Odysseus on her island for seven years promising him immortality, but he preferred to go home instead.  I can understand that.  I want to go home too, but technically I am home.  Home is just not very homey right now.

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Magic Potion

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When I was a teenager, I wanted a magic potion, or cream or salve, that would rid me of acne for all time.  As with all good magic potions, it had a dark side in that there would be adverse side effects, but I was willing to live with those.  I wanted to be clear of acne.  I still do.  How can I be 63 and still have acne?

When I was older and began to realize the impact of time passing, I wanted to be able to store memories never to forget them.  “I want to always remember this,” I would say.  I’ve forgotten so many of those moments, but I remember saying it.

Photo by Jan Ranft on Unsplash

When I was older yet, I wanted a potion to keep my son young and innocent and safe.  I still want that potion.  Especially as he traverses the horror that life can be when things go awry.  I want to wave a magic wand and make it better. 

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