Lymph nodes are swollen.
Winter settles in, deeply.
Distress works outward.
Been overwhelmingly fatigued, with body aches. At least my airways are reasonably clear. Guilt, as work is pitifully understaffed. I allow the stress to accrete, dust gone greasy and hairy, resistant to half measures and good intentions. Damn old back is objecting, and must be coddled. I let my healing have what it needs.
More moments:
When mom started to tell me, and dad butted in to say "Walt is dead." Her beloved brother, my adored uncle, his perceived rival. My first real grief.
The first time I yelled back effectively at him, and the amazement as it (temporarily) worked.
Every time I was hired.
Telling my mom I was divorcing, and she offered sympathy instead of objection.
Seeing the ex at the student union, in the moment I was already changing direction, in a flash seeing his eyes darken. Glad, I used the moment as though it had been intentional.
Sitting at a table at South Station, no one to meet us, no place to stay, and after a few frantic tears, we discuss possibilities, and know we can cope no matter what.
Seeing my cousins walking toward us, familiar, friendly faces, as promised, to lug us and our baggage away to their home.
Seeing a photo of "Midnight" on the Boston Rescue League website, and knowing I wanted that cat.
When we both saw him in person, and both fell in love. Moby would take longer to be convinced.
Funny, how those moments so often come in pairs?
What are your moments, when your universe changes?
5 comments:
First seeing a fluffy white cat with bright blue eyes.
And... that's pretty much it. Moments seem to creep up on me. I often don't realise how close I'm going to be with people when I first meet them, rarely part from them with great drama. Too much of a drifter, it seems.
When I was 2 (?) years old, there was the moment I realized that if I pretended I was asleep in the car, my father would carry me into the house. Otherwise, I would have to walk into the house myself.
When I was 5 years old, there was the moment I was praised for having drawn a purple and orange horse with a crayon. I felt good about what I had done.
When I was 9 years old, there was a moment when, as my mother was hitting me, I thought to myself, "That doesn't hurt." I don’t remember her hitting me after that.
When I was 14 years old, there was the moment I heard Bob Dylan singing "Like A Rolling Stone." I was not alone anymore.
When I was 17 and walking on the beach with a friend, there was the moment I first heard the voice of a handsome and engaging young man who was born within 24 hours of when I was born. I had met someone I would love for a long long time.
When I was 2I, there was the moment I was crouched silently on the floor. The young man I loved, who had just spent a year in Vietnam, was hitting me. Then I yelled at the top of my lungs "YOU CAN'T HIT ME." He stopped hitting me. He never hit me again. After being hit by him, I no longer felt like a young girl.
When I was 36, there was the moment I realized that I didn't ever have to throw up after binging or go on a diet again. I had been obsessed with my weight since I was 10 years old and from that moment on, I have been at a healthy weight.
When I was 45, my sister called the hospital where I worked to tell me that our mother had died unexpectedly of a heart attack.There was the moment I said, "I don't believe it. “Then I said, "She can't hurt me anymore." Then I started crying.
When I was 52, there was the moment I realized that even though the young man I loved who had hit me when we were 21 had terminal lung cancer and was weak and debilitated, he was still capable of hurting me physically and emotionally. I was unable to realize this until I visited him, at his request, at his family's home and understood how frightened he was and always had been.
When I was 53, my father, someone that "everyone felt safe around," was in a coma in an intensive care unit. For the first time that I can remember, there was a moment when I felt completely safe around him. He came out of the coma not long after that. I still felt safe.
I don't remember exactly when, but there was a moment of looking at myself in a mirror and realizing that I no longer hate my face or myself.
The moment of reading your words today, “We discuss possibilities, and know we can cope no matter what.”
Thanks for asking, Zhoen.
P,
The Space Cat knew, and telegraphed it to you.
am,
That's heartbreakingly beautiful. As are you.
(o)
too tired, I'll come back to this.
I'll be thinking about what those moments are for a while, I have a feeling...
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