We used to hold hands and spin in
circles on the playground until we couldn’t hold on any more and wobbled around
before falling down and laughing. There
was a push-action metal top at Grandpa’s house.
I sent it wobbling across the floor over and over and over. He had a gyroscope too. I stacked blocks until they wobbled and
crashed down all over the floor. The
word for the week makes me think of a lot of wobbling play, not the least of
which is learning to ride my too-big bike on a tar and chip road. I’ve still got the scars.
“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.” My little brothers loved Weebles and we sang
that a lot.
Sometimes I wish life were still so
simple. I woke up thinking about work
problems, then the fact that I have to drink 32 oz. of water in an hour this
week for a medical test, and then I remembered that Mickey died on Friday. Life sucks.
That’s 3 people for me in November, so if deaths really go by 3s then I
guess I’m done?
I don’t know if I feel physically wobbly
from all the stresses, but I feel emotionally wobbly. Or maybe just bone tired from dealing with
life and funerals. I’d rather sit on the
floor with the jacks my sister got me for my birthday. 1s… 2s… 3s… start over, 1s… 2s…
I played jacks a lot when I was a kid
which is why she gave them to me now.
Life wasn’t perfect then, but the simple act of counting and bouncing
was a calm in the storm. Sometimes I
would count before
going to sleep and wake up in the morning still counting.
Sometimes I wonder if other people ever
learned to calm themselves? There was a
time that my niece was having a fit and struggled to breathe between
tears. I put her on my lap and told her
to ignore the instigators. Breathe! A ragged sob inward. Good.
Do it again! A slightly less
ragged inward sob. I rocked her back and
forth and kept reminding her to breathe between new sobs of the unjust world. She finally got herself together and then the
instigators had to start up again, but at least she found that she had the
power to control herself.
Sometimes I need to remind myself that I
have that same power. Unclench my jaw
and fists and breathe. Tomorrow hasn’t
happened yet, nothing I can do about the past, just breathe. Remember the happy times when Mickey came
through the door 40 years ago, all smiles and handsomeness, ravioli, back step
talks while we marginally watched the grill or maybe the kids in the back yard. Little moments, but important to my feelings
of acceptance and affection.
I baked cookies from the recipe Sharon
sent me. I’m pretty sure ginger, cocoa,
and sugar solve at least some problems.
Thanks Sharon! Cookies will go
great with the post-Thanksgiving soup I made yesterday. Today I’ll help make 200 meatballs for the
post-funeral lunch.
And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m
grateful for the people who have made my life better. Perhaps all these funerals are a reminder to appreciate
all the important people who have already passed on and appreciate the people still
living while we’ve got them.
My deepest sympathies to the
Caine/Rosato families and to all of Mickey’s many friends.
