Posted by: canaryinacoalmine | August 7, 2006

pour stories and add…everything

I’ve been thinking about her with each passing moment and fleeing rooms to allow her rest, not wanting to get in the way, be the invisible guest.

Thursday afternoon I sat at my desk, listened to her voice mail, searched for the red alert button, and said out loud to no one in particular, “Oh MUH God.” Her voice was calm under the message. Had it been me, had I been the one to shovel the news, you would have to press one for repeat in double digit time to understand the messaged blubber of sobs.

Not Her.

She’s calm and tough like steel, on the surface. I want to put her on a plane to Comfort (apparently Minnesota will work too). Tie her tight in a hug, the way her friends say her name, wrapped in a blanket. A week ago, I walked into a room of her friends a virtual stranger. I walked out with fifteen new friends and understood the “inside” to their jokes. It helped me understand her, and understand them through the stories I’ve read and heard first hand. Her family, of the unrelated kind, are more dynamic than a Pollock painting. Layer upon layer of paint are canvassed with years of detailed trails.

They see, and I see, what she doesn’t let others in on. Once you have experienced pain, had to carry the weight of one who once carried you, it sneaks up on you, burrows itself in your shoulders, preys upon you in the middle of the night. It knows your address.

And although she may feel as though she took a wrong turn or her GPS led her to making breakfast and having a beer Saturday at 5:00 am, the world won’t come crashing down like a glass wall. That has to be an exhausting feeling, heavier than figuring out what to do about North Korea.

She’s probably thinking, well…what choice do I have? Umm. Yeah. None. There are many people who wouldn’t be able to hold up under her circumstances, who wouldn’t have a reservoir of strength to pull from. I hope she will be able to find pockets of time and allow her friends to envelop her, that’s why we’re here.

But this morning, I smiled and laughed while reading a note, slipped under my door. One piece of paper carried the weight of her love.

“J- Sorry my cigs, beer, and sorrow stink up the place every now and than – but I’m glad you’re here – and I can’t tell you how much the flowers (you stole) meant to me. Thank-you.”

My first thought was – I love you too.

**side note – I was bad (big surprise) and stole flowers from flowering trees of strangers homes… (it was late sunday and nuthin was open)I’d do it again…cause let’s face it, the little things mean the most and in the end…and, I’ll let you finish that one.


  1. not happy with hosting

  2. You’re right. It’s the little things. Lovely post.

  3. Hey, if they didn’t want you to take the flowers, they wouldn’t have planted the trees where you could reach, right?

    Besides, it sounds like it was for a good cuase.

  4. alison?

  5. Does this mean you’re moving?

    You never buy me flowers.

  6. Stolen floors? Spontanious thoughts are more important then where they came from.

  7. I saw your running the marathon in Nov., so am I. Are you running with someone?

  8. … and in the end we find that the whole of what we treasure is made from the little things. Or, as the Beatles sang, the love we take is equal to the love we make. Bless you, Red.


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