Bare spots...

There's a hole in my soul
like a withered bare patch
in the lawn outside my door

Killed like the grass
by the decisions I've made--
piss-poor; yet those patches
are just acidic with waste

I don't pretend I can fix it
regrow it,
even accept it,
but I know that I can eventually
adapt to it.

I will make a path, a new way,
through the lawn of my life.
I will turn that bare-worn spot
into a stepping stone to better places.

My soul is not whole, but that's okay.
My path is not built, but it will be someday.

guest appearance because I can't revive my own blog this way

My brain is like swiss cheese - full of big holes information slips through (and away).

I sat down here to write a sad but inspiring blog post about my mother. It's just past midnight, so it's no longer officially the anniversary of her death. But it's bearing down on me. It's left me agitated and grumpy all day. Then, when I was in the middle of putting the wet laundry into the dryer, I remembered something about my mother. Something that led into a sad but inspiring blog post.

Only, before I actually started crafting the post, I forgot what that thing was. That thing I remembered, that was hard but sweet, too. Some elusive memory of her that felt good to talk about and, with more sweet and less bitter.

But then I forgot it.

So instead I'm writing a post that's more bitter and less sweet. And the only reason I'm not crying overtly is because I'm holding on to the anger that keeps me sane. The anger keeps the tears pooled along my eyelashes, elegantly poised to fall at any moment. The anger kept me going for so long. It's hard to let it go.

So. Thirteen years ago, Mom died. She never met my husband or my kids. She never walked through my house, or saw me become something better than I was then. And in the end, it's not about what she missed but what I missed from her - support, love, kindness, familiarity, that life long relationship. Because she's gone, and I'm not.

Which, at a seriously bottom line point, is the reason I've gotten this far without her.

If I had more space, I'd plant a rose garden.

I was recently recounting some of the bigger landmarks in my past. Sort of like a tragic overview version of "This is My Life." I was in a psychologist's office, and she's new to me. Lots of questions, lots of ground to go over. I don't think there's one particular issue that has led me to the quagmire that is my personal neuroses. It makes that introductory phase of therapy hard. Friendships, too, actually, but that's a whole different blog post.

While reviewing aforementioned landmarks, I realized that yes, this is the month marking my mom's death. As a matter of fact, it will be 13 years since her death next week. July 16, 2010. Gone 13 years. The weight of that makes my eyes close and pulls me down toward the earth. This is not something I usually contemplate, as that would push me into an incredibly unhealthy place. I miss her and my heart hurts. It always will.

After having this realization, I was thinking about a trip to the cemetery. It's kind of traditional. Not specifically for me, as I figure I can be depressed anywhere, but in a generic kind of a way. When I do make this trip, no matter what time of year, I leave behind some fresh pink roses. They were predominate in her funeral sprays (casket and standing), and even decorated the coffin we buried her in. There's a bitter macabre part of me that knows those roses are going to wither and die, on the ground at the foot of her tombstone.

At the store, there was a bouquet of fresh pink roses. I bought them. Then I decided to keep them for me. There's still something bitter and macabre about it all. I put them in a jar, with some water, and I walk buy them all day long. I want to remember her life, not her death, but it's too tied up all together.

I wish she was buried in a place where I could plant a live rose bush. That might be healing. For me, anyway. I know she doesn't care.

I'm terrified that when I die someone will seal my body in a box, then another box, and throw dirt on top of it. Logically, I know it doesn't matter as I won't be there anyway. Emotionally I haven't caught on. My wish is that they'll wrap me in some basic linen and put me directly into the Earth. Then somebody who loved me can come along and plant a tree.