Lost and Found

A friend of mine posted a story about someone he was once very close to.
See it here: In Xanadu.

I hear a lot of people say they have someone from their past that they often wonder about.

I've traveled pretty far. South and North again. I've met and lost a lot of people in 47 moves. People that I haven't been able to find. Maybe they don't want found.

I became a bit of an investigator and found a dozen or so old friends. They were all surprised to hear from me. And once I heard from someone (an x) who surprised me. Even though I can carry on a conversation as well as anyone, when I thought about calling some of them again, I didn't know what we'd talk about. It was as if the word well had run dry.

Our interests had changed dramatically. The stepping stones we shared in that brief crossing had taken us to other destinations. At the time, we didn't know or share where we were headed. But now we were there, like standing on opposite shores, shouting across the rushing water.

We didn't work in the same fields or live where we'd first met and now had nothing in common. Aside from a conversation about our current lives, there semed nothing to pursue. It's like revisiting memories. It's a nice break, but you can't go back in time.

So they slipped again into the past.
And so did I.

No Evil

Here are some more of my favorite people! The two on the right are particularly funny together.

Dark Spring

Some days I wake up and think, today will be a great day. I already feel light. More so if the sun is shining. I feel like I'm going to be okay.

Then I remember. My mind slips to autopilot doing daily chores that should be done. If I'm still overwhelmed and can't think, I clean.

Today, a month ago, we sat in the stone chapel while sharply dressed military men recited from a piece of paper their gratitude for dad's service to his country. When they fired their rounds into the sky, I heard the brass casings ping off the bricks. Then they handed a folded triangular flag to my step mom.

I still couldn't believe it. I couldn't connect to it, actually felt like I was watching this happen to other people, not me or my family. Even thought I stood in the hospital and heard the pronouncement, still know the time of day, can see through the window to outside, still see several people milling around looking morose. It just happened. It feels like the day before yesterday.

I don't remember much of the last 31 days, making 31 pots of coffee, packing lunches or doing laundry but once, even though I did it every week.
I Can't, and I Don't Care fight over who will own my day. I walk Sam to school and then walk on to the Library where no one bothers me.

The great news I received yesterday about the publications thrilled me and even made me smile, and I hung onto it as long as I could. But by evening I could barely breathe for crying.

My dad isn't around to hear my good news and cheer me on. It was like seeing a candle go out. My world felt a little lonelier, a little darker and a little sadder too. He was that powerful encourager for many, I realized. His words rewarded that drive to succeed, that need to be recognized, appreciated, patted on the back.
I missed it, missed him. In that moment, the loss crystallized into grief. The kind of grief that folds a person in two and pulls their eyelids into flat crinkles had finally found me.

My lightness slipped away and I wanted to take my sad self and heavy heart back to bed. After some cleansing tears, the Lord reminded me that I have a circle of people who are very excited about the accomplishments of my life. They enjoy being included in the good reports. And just so you know, I am really grateful more than ever for those who love me.

Friends

Pink is not my favorite color. And Easter pink might be pretty far down the chart on my color choices. Pink is usually not a good food choice.
Except when nothing in the world sounds good to eat and the effort of cooking seems overwhelming.

Bright pink became my friend today, like orange did yesterday, for the same reason. A pink egg became my salvation. It peeled like a dream, the yolk a perfect shade of butter and I knew they were cooked and colored with love.


Dear friends, a playwright and his lovely wife, accepted our invitation to enjoy a casual Easter dinner at our family table. I love to cook for the holidays and as my family of origin consisted of eight, I’m still learning how (and failing more often than not) to cook in small quantities.
When I greeted our friends at the door, the missus carried an apple pie and a small oblong casserole dish full of brightly colored boiled eggs.

In a flashback, I’m standing in the oak surround kitchen my father built, red-orange print carpet under my feet, harvest gold counters. It’s Easter Sunday 1970 something. My paternal Grandmother who might have been slightly over four foot six on her tippy toes, smiles wryly. The rainbow basket she brought only on Easter contained the waxy green shredded paper serving as "grass" and about a dozen brightly colored duck eggs.
I feel my face smile and it feels like the sun peeking out from rainclouds.

Condolences were offered and accepted regarding the recent loss of my dad (who incidentally was a big fan of egg yolks.) The holiday seemed all the richer for starting our visit with such a bright memory.

We ate and talked and laughed over dinner. With dessert, Jack and I discussed details of the play two of us had spent months working on. When our friends departed, I'm sad to see them go but glad for the meal, the memories and a bowl of eggs.

I think I’ll go make friends with that blue one…