rain falling gently now
I do not sleep
Freddie said “I love to hear the rain” and I said “I do too.”
To walk through his house again to smell the smell of his house and the redwood trees to visualize him pushing his walker down the hall stopping briefly at the living room door where I slept on the couch to say “Mom I am sorry about the things I said last night.” and I would answer “I am sorry as well for my behavior. I love you.” and he would go into the kitchen to make his breakfast or take his medicine.
To see him feed his worms; work in his tomato pots on the gorgeous deck, in the sun; eat watermelon with his friend, Ron, who came for an hour each Wednesday. He did not have many visitors dropping by because of his illness.
I wish I had not said “Stop playing with your phone and try to sleep”
The phone was his connection to the world; I should have known because it was my connection to the world as well, then as now. Oh, that hind sight could be zero and present sight could be 20/20.
to hear him call me during the night “Mom, I am going to be sick”
to hold the basin and clean it after he vomited
to pull up the syringes for him even though I simple could not bring myself to give him the shot, rescue shot, in the abdomen. I wish I could have but it hurt me to much to think about it. My fear of hurting him. He hated giving himself the shop but he needed it to live.
i could have learned on an orange.
I must tell all the stories before I forget. I have to write my way through this if I am going to live.
Spiders weave their webs overnight and if they are lucky, folk like me will not walk through them. Not that I would on purpose , however in the early morning walk down the drive to get the daily paper, I sometimes do not see them. I feel myself being wrapped in gossamer, silver threads and know that I unintentionally destroyed a work of art.
Sometimes, when they are left to weave huge webs, they write messages for us to decipher. My mother would study these webs and now I do.
Speaking of webs we weave, life seems to be carved into webs; some broken into loose fragments; some sturdy and strong. Webs are strange filaments that many times break the silver thread connecting us to those we love and those we lost.
Open the black velvet box
Nothing but ashes
Open the silver locket
A few ashes, nothing else
Look into the open grave
The black velvet covered box
Inside the vault
Nothing but ashes
I wonder which part
Of my son
I have within the silver locket
God can put all the pieces back, right?
Today I walked the long drive to pick up the morning paper. On my way back, I detoured to check to see if the raccoon had eaten the little I had put in the feeding area for him last night.
Suddenly there is this golden flash I catch out the corner of my left eye.
Here is the lovely flash I saw that sat and looked at me. When I left it was still there.
Is it a butterfly? If so, what kind?
Burnis T. Gardner died on June 29 at 3:19 p.m., as I held his hand and talked with him. He quietly exhaled his last breath peacefully.
He had a graveside service in Sallis, MS at Harmonia Cemetery, the quiet little cemetery where Freddie’s headstone lives. It is very peaceful and remote. My family has owned that land for 169 years so all of us will go home to this place to wait.
It seems I have been here in MS more than AL. My sister continues to have problems losing blood and having transfusions and I continue watching in hopes that this last time the doctors might have corrected the problem.
After a week in the hospital, we came back to the silent waiting house filled with many memories of times past.
When she is stronger, I will leave again. The road back keeps getting longer.
Here is a photo. Next post may be the video if I can figure that out.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner
“To understand the world, you must first understand Mississippi.” – William Faulkner
“But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.” – George Noel Gordon, Lord Bryon