Time Well Spent

This early morning hour of raindrops falling on the pavement outside, the birds (although they are exceptionally loud today) chirping, the ambient sounds of ceiling fans and tires on wet asphalt. It makes me sleepy thinking about it, and after a restless night of vivid life-like dreams, Rocky’s mewing me back to bed is tempting. Today is a cemetery day, and as soon as the rain lets up I’ll make my way to St. Charles. I had hoped for drier weather, one where I could linger on the bench near my parents’ grave and read for awhile. There’s something comforting about being able to spend time in quiet reflection.

Time, when you’re paying extra close attention to it has an odd rhythm. It’s as if someone is alternately pressing on the fast-fast-forward and pause button on a remote control. Tangible emotions but everything else is a blur. The pace of this last year moving through the grief, learning a new way of thinking, and looking back at life...it’s almost indescribable how we, I got here. One year later.

After experiencing both variations of dying, the drawn out meddling of cancer and the quick and fast accidental death, I honestly can’t say which is worse or better. I only wish that we were all lucky enough to pass in our sleep, after a fitful day of time spent with friends and family, and doing things that we love. I wish that we could all be better prepared for death when it knocks on our loved ones door. Above all, I wish we would live our lives well, following our dreams without fear and judgment, without being constantly reminded that our time on this Earth is precious and should be spent well.  

It's All in the Timing

A co-worker introduced me this new-to-me app called TimeHop. This novel utility, once you authorize access to all of your social networks aggregates your past posts, tweets and photos and pushes a time capsule of your activities so you can reminisce. This morning, curiosity got the best of me and I found myself scrolling through the iPhone app store to download and install.

This week as you may already know has its own sort of reckoning, it being the first anniversary of Dad’s accident, last days and death. (Yes, I know it may seem morbid to keep reiterating our last days together. When you experience the loss of a beloved one you will understand how feeling every moment gets you through the hardest parts of grief.) I was lucky enough to have a friend spontaneously suggest dinner and drinks after work, and that certainly helped dilute the edginess and restlessness.

TimeHop pushed a notification of this day in my past history and rather than pull content from this day last year, it highlighted older stuff. Like how this week in 2012 my Dad & I were in the Bronx. It was the first deposition in Dad’s car accident case a few years back. I just remember how nerve-wracking it was for Dad, and for me, to passively sit back and watch the lawyers grill him.

Kind of like how I had to passively sit back and watch Dad last year as his health deteriorated at a rapid pace, until we had little choice but to make his last days comfortable, preparing ourselves and the rest of the family, to say good-bye.

One Day Last Year

I’d almost forgotten. In the back of my mind, I must have known, although it wasn’t until I physically wrote the date with a blue felt marker on a lined piece of paper that the significance flooded my memory. This day last year was a Monday, the beginning of an average work week. I had plans to meet up with my dear friend Alex for the most amazing dinner at Feast and after a few hours of catching each other up on our lives, I made my way home to Brooklyn.

It wasn’t a late night, and upon my arrival I made my way upstairs to check in on Dad, who I found had dozed off while watching television. I leaned over to rouse him, chattering about my day and dinner, asking him about his day and if he was on track with his medications. He stirred but seemed disoriented. It had been a hot couple of days so I went to the kitchen for a cold glass of water to refresh him. When I got back he was mumbling, the water seemed to waken his senses. I was suspicious though, he had TIAs previously -- and the signs suggested that maybe he had an episode earlier in the evening.

I decided to go upstairs to see if everything was okay--Dad wasn’t always forthcoming with anything that suggested he wasn’t healthy as an ox, or as close to 100% as he could get.  I told him to finish his water and rest a moment. Upstairs things seemed to be in order, the bathroom and hallway were both clear.  I was resetting the portable A/C for the evening when I heard Dad make his way to the stairs. The cadence of his footsteps seemed wrong, rather than the step-step-stomp of his slippered feet and cane hitting each stair, I heard step-step, step-step-stomp. He was using the cane to support him on every other step.

I made my way to the top of the staircase, talking to him about using the cane for support so he wouldn’t fall. He was on the second to last step, I think he may have paused to consider what I was saying, the cane had not yet touched down. In that second before I could even think, before I could reach out, he fell backward, somersaulting down the stairs, only stopping as he made impact with the landing wall and fell into fetal position under the hall table. I hear myself gasp, then shriek. Everything else after that plays out like a stop-motion movie. Dashing down the stairs, calling 911 while coaching my father not to move, the arrival of the ambulance, the ride to the hospital with an EMT driver unfamiliar with south Brooklyn, and the emergency room and ICU at the Lutheran Trauma Center.

It was the third to last day in July 2013.  

Eyelashes

Sometimes when I’m in the beginning fugue of a migraine, I have a conversational hiccup, a mental stutter or verbal Tourette. Although a complete anecdotal paragraph streams through my mind, only one or two words that make up some kind of sentence are actually spoken. The migraine haze blurs the lines, and it’s not until hours later after I’ve slept the tension off that I even remember the misstep (or offense).  

Source: Education Portal

Like today, I was talking about beautifying myself for Rich & Mikie’s wedding and during the course of the conversation talked about having my hair and makeup done vs. doing it myself because eyelashes are so difficult to apply yourself. It reminded me that the last time I had my eyelashes applied was back in March for the 2nd to last burlesque show with the girls. I pictured Suzie leaning over Kate then me, applying the glue to the lash and waiting for it to set, then lining up the fake one to the real one to layer it on with precision, one eye at a time. All that storytelling was unfolding like a silent movie in my mind.

Then in a synapse I return to the conversation at hand, a truncated sentence tumbling out of my mouth. “I don’t think I’ve shared this before but I perform burlesque and discovered the glam makeup application, so will need to get someone to apply mine. Then I'll need to find some glitter.” No context that's relatable. No transition statement. No further explanation, just vomited words into the air. In hindsight, not the most standard of water cooler conversations one has at work.

Pasta and Lamb

Roxanne and I spoke about it at therapy on Wednesday, she reminded me that I had to work through the grief when it hit me that I'm still in transition.

This is the first Easter without Dad, and the last Easter at my childhood home.

Last Easter, after months of Dad saying how much he wanted lamb I made a reservation at Tanoreen in Bay Ridge -- a Middle Eastern restaurant known for its various lamb dishes and highly rated by Zagat, Yelp and others. Easter was early that year at the tail end of March. Initially it was going to be just my dad and I. With the India trip just a month away, I decided to invite Advaitha to join us.

The three of us sat at a round table in the center of a boisterously loud room. Dad was subdued. Looking back I realize he had surrendered conversation because of the inability to hear, something he grappled with as he aged. I think also that his frustration over the noisy patrons was a direct result of his annoyance toward me for not choosing an Italian restaurant. It wasn't until we were seated with water glasses filled and menus in hand that he mentioned wanting pasta and lamb.

Source: Kate & Julio's Kitchen Blog - click for recipe.

Pasta and lamb. Pasta and lamb is Italian. The choices are endless in our neighborhood. It would have been an easy fix even if it was Easter. One year later, it makes me sick to my stomach that I didn't gather him up and take him elsewhere.

It's a silly form of regret, I know. I was a good daughter and some days I could have been a better one. Oddly those days are the ones that creep back first. Flashes of my impatience and short-temper unleashed, the moments where my cocky arrogance spewed condescension...no good comes from that kind of reminiscing but its impression lingers still.

Lost in Transition

Here's the thing about grief...you never know when it's going to hit you, what will trigger a change of heart, a change in mood. One minute you're fine, the next, not so much. Maybe it was the fresh air or the restless sleep from last night catching up to me or maybe it was the wine. Whatever it was, it hit me this afternoon. One minute I'm concentrating on framing the picturesque landscape with my camera and the next I'm retreating into my thoughts, quiet as a mouse in the tour van. I excused myself from the afternoon activities to relinquish this hollow feeling. It's hard to do when you're with friends and they're raring to go sightseeing and shopping but it's the right thing to do for them and for yourself. And it's much easier pawing through it when you're alone and the only thing that makes sense is sitting by the fire with a hot cup of coffee.

Lost in transition, any one of us going through loss, picking up the pieces...until we work through it, we are in this state of uncertainty, in limbo. There's no shortcut to healing your heart, no magic potion to make the pain go away. The only way to get through it is to face grief head on. Some people don't get it though. They ignore the pain, think it will disappear if they don't pay any attention. Some people act on impulse, make decisions without thinking of the consequences. Others get angry or fall into despair, and still some act like the grief doesn't exist, like nothing's wrong. We all know someone like that but you can't hide from grief, it finds a way in whether you realize it or not.

Grief is not easy, if anything at all, it's scary and it doesn't matter how many times you go through it. If only we talked more about death before it happened. What it means when death happens to the old, to the young, what it means for those of us left behind. Falling in love is rare, death on the other hand happens every second of every day.

When death takes someone that we love, when it hits close to home and we can feel the grief settling in...we find ourselves standing still but also moving forward.

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Past Lives and Connections

Last night I attended my first-ever psychic medium session. There were about twenty-two of us in the room listening to Cathy, a psychic medium and transformation expert, and Andy, a clairvoyant and astrologer, introduce themselves.  This session was part two of an intuitive workshop the pair had led earlier in the afternoon. 

Other than the new friends I had made in the afternoon session, I didn’t know anyone in the room and didn’t know what to expect. I believe that there is more to this universe than what we can see. I believe that there is a higher power, a god if you will. I believe in the possibility of a spirit communicating from the great beyond, and I know from experience that it can happen. A month or so after my mom passed, she came to me in a dream—her presence was so strong it jarred me awake and I saw her sitting at the foot of my bed. There have been other instances too, where I’ve felt a presence guiding me or acting on my behalf—like the time I almost fell asleep at the wheel and felt something press my foot on the brake. It’s with this open heart that I settled in to listen and experience this psychic session.

I was jotting down a note about evidential mediumship when Andy first mentioned “Aunt Petunia.” I raised my head, and he said the name again, no one else in the room flinched. That’s when I first suspected mom was in the room. Petunia, or more specifically “my sweet Petunia” was my pet name, what my mom would call me when I was a child.

The evening unfolded with Andy alternating between reading someone’s past life and Cathy sharing communications from the spirits lingering in the room to their loved ones seated around me.  When a catch phrase or word struck a chord I would jot them down in my notebook, and throughout the evening it felt as if my pen never quite left the page. At one point, I looked down to find a quarter of the page covered in doodles.  

Doodling was something my mom would do. Preoccupied with her thoughts while on the phone with friends or filling out the crossword puzzle, there would inevitably be doodles in the margins of whatever piece of paper was nearby. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time, and yet the memory is crystal clear. A yellow and green #2 pencil, slightly worn, the hazy gray sheets of the Daily News, Mom drinking her coffee in a signature Morton’s Salt themed coffee cup, poring over the clues.

“Your heart chakra is glowing a neon green,” Andy says, and then asks me what era in time I resonate with most. “The 1940s,” I reply and it opens a floodgate about my past life as a 1940s French film star who rallied for the underdog and played a part in the underground resistance during WWII. I couldn’t help but smile. 

“I bet you’re a champion for your friends, too,” he continued. Next he talked about my “benevolent energy” and the strength of my third chakra, the center of self-esteem, and how it had been recently tested. “Know that you cannot be pushed.” It was a reaffirmation from the hell of last week that I can and will persevere.

Near the close of the evening, I learned that my mom had a very strong presence in the room. Cathy wanted me to know that she had always been around and would continue to be around, to support and guide me. Cathy asked me if we were close and I told her yes that we were very tied to each other both as mother/daughter and as friends.  She acknowledged that it was the nurturing of the intuition that tied us, and was at the root of our strong bond. It was surreal hearing those words but also distinctly comforting, I could feel her presence holistically.

Maybe I’ll get to see her in my dreams tonight, too.

Unlocking Intuition

This week was a different kind of intense with disconnected communications at work to the fluctuating temperatures of a winter season that refuses to let go. It was very draining and stirred up a vortex of emotion. Add that to the current state of uncertainty that I’ve been dealing with these past few months, it was no surprise that Friday night was spent vegged out on the couch.

I had signed up for a workshop on Saturday and was contemplating attending the evening session as well. Both events explored how to nurture intuitive communications, something I’ve been longing to get back in touch with. As a child, I had always been tapped into my intuition but in recent years the connection has been a bit faulty. 

Intuition identifies your true heart and with practice can assist with your life’s journey—it has many synonyms but most people refer to it as listening to your gut. It’s a gift my mom and I shared, and in earlier days, I actively nurtured it with my writing, through yoga, and art classes. I have fond memories of attending workshops and classes, participating in a women’s circle where we shared life stories seated around a burning sage bush, learning meditation and occasionally walking the labyrinth in Union Square. All these activities brought with them a sense of calm and peace, and I wanted to rediscover how to access that feeling again. 

That’s how I found myself in Windsor Terrace this afternoon, searching for the Prospect Range in the pouring rain. The workshop, “Using Intuition in Business and Life, A Pathway to Creativity and Abundance” was led by Cathy Towle, a psychic medium and transformation expert, and Andrew Brewer, a clairvoyant and astrologer. The 2-1/2 hour workshop was an interactive discussion about how to sharpen your intuitive skills to empower yourselves creatively and with instinct to ultimately manifest change.  

Snowfall in Cincinnati

The skyline alight in neon red, I leave NYC behind, flying northwest over the great island of Manhattan, the Hudson River and New Jersey destined for a different tri-state area. Cincinnati International Airport touches Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana. It seems counter intuitive to fly north when your destination is due south but I think we can all agree that the enigmatic code that goes into air flight scheduling is not decipherable by many. 

The flight attendant's voice on the intercom is garbled, as if I'm on a Manhattan-bound subway car. The plane is full and tiny, 21 rows deep, 4 seats wide with a sloped ceiling where anyone over 5'7" has to stoop to get into the carriage and to their seat. The flight is uneventful and less than two hours later we arrive to a snow-covered runway. The snow fury is marking its passage every which way.  The terminal is deserted and I make my way through the concourse on an inter-terminal airtrain. The baggage claim and ground transportation are accessed by a set of escalators, where only one is in service. There is a gurney at the top of the non-moving escalator, and although my mind registers it I'm too tired to process what that could mean. 

As I step onto the escalator and make my way down it all becomes clear as the firefighters and EMT crew come into view. They are assisting an elderly gentleman who had fallen face forward onto the escalator. He could have been Dad's age, or younger, and he is battered and bruised, and seemingly alone. His injuries are visible and worrisome, a huge bump on his head, blood running down his forearms. I can't help but think of Dad's accident, the similarities uncanny. Flashes of his own fall, the blood on the landing, the EMTs examination, his insistence that he was fine. A guy standing behind me points out that you can never be too sure of what the repercussions of a fall like that could mean, "most folks that age are on blood thinners." I shuddered, remembering all too well.  

   

At the bottom of the staircase, the baggage claim is hopping with passengers, queued up at the American Airlines help desk. The DoubleTree shuttle is just outside, where slush of a different kind is piling up. A family of four from Massachusetts joins me in the van. They are making their way to Disney World in Orlando, this is their second flight in as many days, the final one tomorrow will hopefully get them closer to the sun, just like me.  

Snow fury and contemplation...

I’ve questioned my sanity these last few days as I try to make my way to a sunnier locale in the middle of this godforsaken snow fury hitting the eastern seaboard. Do you remember The Gods Must Be Crazy? It was a movie released back in the 80s, that’s sort of how I feel right now.

I was supposed to leave yesterday morning, which means I would have already been acclimated to the balmy equatorial climate of Cancun, nearly adjusted to the refreshing sea salt in the air. Instead I’ve been sequestered in my apartment, wearing fluffy pajamas and going stir crazy as I bide my time until a night flight to Cincinnati.

Yes Cincinnati as in the hometown of the fictional WKRP radio station. I’ll have an 8-hour layover before I fly to Mexico, and unfortunately it’s an overnight so I won’t be able to visit any of the recommended points of interest. As luck would have it the Doubletree where I’ll be staying straddles both Ohio and Kentucky so I’ll be missing out on exploring two states instead of just one. I guess I’ll have to mark them off my bucket list another time.

two hours later  

In a burst of clarity this afternoon, I thought it’d be best if I repacked the suitcase. Except I couldn’t find the key to unlock the damn thing and then I remembered the metal cutter was stashed in the shed under a drift of packed snow. It’s amazing how MacGyver-like you can be when you’re in mitzvah. After I nicked the lock with gardening shears + a wrench, I remembered (thankfully) that I put the keys in my coat. That probably saved the zipper’s life.

The suitcase has been packed and repacked. Electronics are charged. Plugs are in the bag. I’ve got forty-five minutes until the car service arrives, enough time for a coffee and if I stop typing, some scrambled eggs. I haven’t eaten much of anything these last two days, an unhealthy side effect of anxiety and stress. Yep, making them eggs now.

Remembering Mama (and Daddy, too)

Save fingertips clicking across a soft keyboard, and the purr of a coffee-colored feline sleeping, the night is filled with absolute silence. There is a stillness lingering, the subtle essence of vanilla and sugar settling into the air. In these first minutes of a new day and an anniversary, or two.

The first anniversary is a joyful one, a day when my mom and dad stood before their family and friends exchanging vows and their devotion for one another.

My mom wore a high-collared long sleeved tea-length wedding dress, my father a dapper black suit and tie. I know this from the black and white photos nestled into old scrapbooks and archived photo sleeves. The images are from before and after, I haven't yet found one taken at the church. I recognize the sweeping banister in the dining room and the arch at the entryway between the living room and the foyer, all taken at the house. This house, their house, our house.

Later when I remember the second anniversary, the not so pleasant one, the sequential montage will come to mind in a flash of archways and bannisters, wooden parquet floors and cornice moldings, swirling around a hospital bed. I will remember the muted television and the flash of Lauren Bacall on a train traveling through the desert, the silence interrupted by an intermittent beat of a respirator, my father snoring on the couch. The absence of a grey striped cat, and the eerie stillness that lingers indefinitely when you realize that the quiet you are hearing is your mother's last breath saying goodbye. 

Remembering Mama, 14 Years Gone, Forever in Our Hearts
Lucy Romano Preziotti
9/19/28 - 1/23/00

New Year, New Me

Twenty-two days in to a brand new year and what do I have planned? Change, and lots of it. Change of life, change of perspective and in the not so distance future, a change of address. That last one will be a challenge, once you live in a place for most of your lifetime it becomes more than a physical entity and part of your lifeline. Yes, I'm talking about the invisible lifelines on your palm, and the superimposed ones that trace the bloodlines from your heart center to your mind. The intangible becomes solid and everything takes on another sheen of reality. All at the hand of one moment that acts as the catalyst for all those fleeting thoughts of what ifs pondered on roads not yet taken.

If this doesn't make sense it's okay, I don't think it's supposed to. That's what grief does: scrambles the frequency of thoughts conjured by a once rational at times dreamy daughter and neutralizes them, until she's ready to deal. Which may be today, or tomorrow, or yesterday, and that all takes time. The healing, it takes time.

Keeping it steady

Unready. Am I having second thoughts, and if so, why am I having second thoughts. I was ready am ready. And yet suddenly unsure, maybe it’s the fear, that fear of the unknown – not knowing what decision is right vs. the one that could be wrong.

Am I ready? Or is that I am unready?

Funny how things shift day-to-day feelings, ideas, thoughts – seismic shift, continental shift, sands through an hourglass shift. Life is beginning and ending simultaneously at any given moment.

How do I feel about anything? Right now I feel hollow, lost. Even going to the vet with Rocky – I hear the doctor say the words but the meaning is a gobbledy-gook of nonsense to this ear.

Right here. Right now.

Today is Bev’s year anniversary – how my heart reaches across time and space and distance to hold my West Coast family at its center. In three days it will be mom’s 14th death anniversary. Fourteen years, where did they all go? Then in 13 days it’ll be six months without Dad. Sometimes time moves fast, sometimes slow, but it keeps on moving.

Moving. This year I will be moving...toward what is the question. Working toward the next chapter of my life, to another something, which can mean anything. 

Anything at all.  

South Brooklyn, as i know it

11pm on a Saturday. Not so long ago that meant teased hair and tight jeans, stepping into a red shiny car only to drive up and down the avenue (as 86th street was known back then). Today that same strip is quiet, deserted save a taxi or two. The roller rink has been replaced by a national liquidator and a local supper club, Lenny's Pizza holds its ground a few blocks north, and that movie theatre is now a Rite Aid, neither of which are open right this second.

South Brooklyn. That's where I am from. The South Brooklyn of the 70s before the real estate market redefined neighborhoods and invented fancy acronyms like BoCoCa (aka Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens). When looking at a map, the actual South Brooklyn  includes Coney Island, Gravesend, Bensonhurst and Homecrest--parts of the borough that unlike every other area just close enough to the Big Island of Manhattan have survived without regentrification.

When my dad was growing up, Luna Park (as the amusement park was called back then before renamed Astroland) was an integral part of his childhood. One of his uncles or cousins leased the Tornado, a predecessor (along with the Thunderbolt) to the famous Cyclone roller coaster, and he spent many a summer handing out and collecting tickets from enthusiastic thrill seekers. My Aunt Millie had her own claim to fame working at the Brighton Beach Bathhouses. I'm not sure what (or where) Uncle Dom was at the time.

This is where my roots are, where my family tree was planted and flourished. In a 3-story brick house, 2.5 miles northeast of the magic of carney in Coney. There is a slate path of multi-colored slabs leading toward my front door, alongside where once stood a towering pussy willow tree, the branches of which my mom and I would harvest each Fall. The backyard equal parts concrete and grass conjures memories of leap frog, sprinklers in summer heat, of baloney sandwiches and games of hide and seek.

It is here that my brother's children played corn hole with my dad, here where I taught  neighboring children how to make snow angels after the season's first snowfall.  There are so many memories lingering in the eaves of this house, in the branches of the bare bushes in hard winter soil, seeping into the concrete foundation that I call home.

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healing hearts through runes

Every day since my father passed I have consulted The Healing Runes, to guide my intentions and work through the grief. It has become my mourning ritual, jostling the green velvet bag to shuffle and unsettle the twenty-five etched stones. Then reaching in and grazing them with my fingertips before resting on one, the one that calls out to me.

It might seem counterintuitive for a Catholic-raised turned spiritualist to have faith in a sea of stones but the meditation of intention each day has been a gift. Clearing my mind, guiding me toward a path of least resistance as I make my way through these murky waters, an untethered raft floating. In the beginning, as if Elisabeth Kubler-Ross herself was guiding my fingers I found myself choosing humor, denial, forgivness, guilt. They paved the way for the last few days of gratitude, faith and the Divine. The Divine rune encourages one to be present in their own hearts, to look inside ourselves to uncover the love within; for some that might be translated into strength, courage. You need all three to make it through one day, to feel any semblance of accomplishment for waking up and facing the kaleidoscope.

Today was unsettling. There wasn't one moment that defined it as such. It was more an amalgamation of many things, little snippets of living that tipped the emotional scale. Of talking with friends, and not talking to others, and how that unconscious decision made me realize that the one person who I could almost always talk to is no longer of this earth. Dad always had (or made) time to listen, even when he was exhausted or in some cases distracted, he would listen. Settling into his chair, swiveling to face me, rock solid determined to hear what I had to say and grasp my point of view (even when it was unclear to him what I was talking about), he would try to make sense of it all and ask probing questions to guide me towards working it out, toward diffusing the clutter in my mind. All I have now are cobweb enshrouded thoughts and a lingering fog, holding steady.

Midnight. The beginning of a new day, the twelth anniversary of September 11th a tragic catastrophe of a day where the world felt the same level of anguish--a gasp, a sigh, a drop in the pit of our stomachs, a collective feeling of loss and despair.

I reach for the velvet bag and pull out the rune for prayer. A first time appearance in this ritualistic sequence, the prelude for all things, for all intentions. I flip to page 103 and read through the meditation which encourages the reader to place all that which concerns them into the hands of the Divine through prayer, so that it might work to quiet the troubled spirit and summon the greater good for healing.

You to whom all hearts are open, all secrets known, hear our prayers.

###

every day is a journey

On good days it feels normal, as if he's somewhere else: at the doctor, visiting his sister, sleeping in. I can't feel his absence. On bad days, it's more noticeable.

Our relationship was ever-evolving. He was a fixture, a constant, a confidante, a friend, a father. We shared ideas over conversation, sometimes dissecting deep thinking that almost always spurred into argumentative discussions--Dad and I had opposing school of thoughts.  It was like that since I was young. It would start at the dinner table over dessert and coffee, migrate to the sofa during TV time, the mad crazy emotionally charged debates. I don't know how my mom survived them. I guess it's just something we Italians do, our own version of a cardio workout.

Silence. 8am on a Saturday is quiet, that is normal. Later after I've had coffee and breakfast, I'll unconsciously be listening for the shuffling of feet, the murmuring white noise of a radio talk show host, the running of water. I know none of it will come, and yet I still wish for it.

Sleep comes easy, and I fall back asleep this time on the couch. At 11am I stir to the sound of cicadas and ghost noises. The house conjured them in my waking cycle, and they are almost real. Startling how the senses are adept at translation.

wistfully yours

I've been through this once before. The first time I was younger, naive and immature. Even though mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I wasn't prepared to let go of her, let alone get used to the idea of her not being here. We had almost a year and it just wasn't enough time. Thirteen years later, older, slightly wiser, more mature I was just getting used to (and coming to terms with) the idea of dad getting older and slowing down. My mind was compartmentalizing his gradual deterioration and wrapping itself around the possibilities of how we would take care of him when he slowed down to a snail's pace. Everything happened so quickly, so fast. It didn't occur to me that he would injure himself and then stop. Stop. It's such a final word, and it finds me ill prepared for this act of letting go, again.

We just passed the three week mark, next Tuesday will mark a month. Thirty days. Seven-hundred and thirty hours. Too many seconds to contemplate. It hurts my head if I think about it too much. I find myself watching marathon hours of TV--a shocker for those of you who know me (once upon a time I didn't have TV let alone cable); reading a lot, mostly books, magazines, news articles on my iPad and my Twitter feed (I'm not sure why but I've become mildly obsessed with scouring through posts, tweeting and retweeting) and when I can sleeping, I alternate between an obscene number of shut-eye or none at all.

This weekend I was down at the shore celebrating my niece's birthday with family. The weather blue skies and climate temperate foe all day swimming in the saltwater pool, and the children (and their friends) took full advantage, splashing and dashing around the backyard. A full day outdoors calls for a slumber worthy of kings and queens but instead I found myself restless and tormented by nightmares, the kind that grip your heart tight enough to force you awake.  I was sharing a room with my nephew in the blue and white room, facing Main Avenue. The sounds of the passing traffic ultimately lulled me to sleep.

I woke in the morning to a rambunctious symphony of voices and made my way down to the kitchen. Assigned party duties, we each played our part in the party preparation and then lazily made our way back to poolside with sunscreen and towels and a side order of books in tow.  The day unfurled as family and friends made their way to the house to chat and play, swim and soak up the sun, and commemorate summer the old fashioned way with a pool party and BBQ. It was whimsically fun.

It would have been even lovelier if Dad were there, as my nephew Christopher pointed out. Dad surely would have been pleased with the weather and enjoyed the festivities, from the sunshine to the artisanal hand-packed ice cream from Hoffman's to the tasting of Italian wine recently acquired by my brother's brother in law, Danny.  And he would have certainly cheered, if not participated in the multi-generational game of corn hole being played poolside by my nephew (his grandson), Uncle Dom (dad's brother) and his two adult grandsons (our cousins), Chris and John. That scene made me sad, wistful.

And I should have known that the ride home would do me in; I curse my unconscious for failing to trigger some sort of warning, do not drive back late by yourself. As I sat in traffic on the Garden State it was hard not to remember the last time I drove this way Dad was in the seat next to me, half awake, half asleep, talking about nothing, or something about politics. Estimating the time based on how far we've traveled, guesstimating the time of day by the position of the moon and the light in the night sky. He was almost always dead on too, which of course in its own special way drove me mildly crazy and insane.

All those things we take for granted when they are here; are the nuances that we first begin to miss when their voices are no longer of this earth. 

inexplicable grief

Life is unpredictable.  One minute you're discussing the possibility and probability of rain or recollecting someone based on the color of their hair and in the next minute you're in a fog, trying to remember what day it is and the last time the weather was so beautiful it brought you to tears.

Today is one of those days. It is cool and crisp, leaning toward the end of summer, a sunny Wednesday in August. Three weeks shy of Labor Day. It is a day where Dad would have been obnoxiously alert and chipper, a day where the radio would have piqued at 7AM and the shuffling of his feet on the staircase would have had a rhythm, one part rumba one part stroll. It may have included a knock on the door, a good morning greeting with an offering of bananas. When he had energy it was contagious, and when he didn't the house seemed to creak with its heaviness.

This day is halfway good, halfway bad. The sunshine is refreshing, the air vitalizing but my head is foggy still. It's only been two weeks since the fall, twelve days since the day, possibly the saddest I will know this decade. I know we're only three years in but right now that's what it feels like to me. There seems to be one every ten years, whether that's purposeful or not I don't know. 

Loss happens to everyone. And the grief which affects the saddest people and the happiest of people, attacks silently. Unnoticeably at first, it's expected in unexpected ways; one never knows what will be the trigger. And like a phantom itch grazing against the nerve endings of our heart, lightly touching our soul, it is both intangible and inexplicable.  

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drive me crazy

I've made myself a drunken milkshake as an aperitif to dinner tonight, because after the last 5 days I've earned it. My dad had a fainting spell on Saturday, a repercussion from the mad heatwave the East Coast has been under, a murky and hazy summer deluge. I've been home coaching him toward recovery, urging him to drink water and fight the urge to go downstairs and watch TV in favor of sitting in a cool air conditioned room. I love him but he drives me crazy with his obstinate and stubborn-resistance to change, especially when the intent is to make his life easier.  

the beach is my sacred space

I consider my beach time sacred, whether I am alone or with friends. It's a moment in time where I am in touch with nature and completely relaxed. I feel lucky to live in a city and state that has an accessible shoreline very close to where I live (it's about a 15-20 min drive with no traffic).  And I don't know that I could live anywhere that didn't offer something similar, a body of water, a natural spring to offer that level of solace and happiness.

Shorelines come with a price of course, there's always the chance of of storms and flooding. Last fall, my beach was brutalized by Hurricane Sandy. I was away during it all and hadn't been back since late summer, and I wasn't sure what to expect when I got there yesterday. Kudos to Gateway National Park because the beach itself was intact and even though the shoreline was a bit jagged it was equally picturesque.

The best thing about my beach is that it's also part of a park.  A park that includes miniature golf, an 18-hole range, a playground for kids and picnic areas. It also has courts (tennis, paddleball, handball) that run along the perimeter of the boardwalk that runs adjacent to the beach. There are multiple entry points to the beach from the parking lot.  In the mild winter of 2011, I drove out to Riis to take a walk and after discovering a paddleball set in the garage, found the workout quite enjoyable.  The court itself is overrun with weeds, and strewn with broken beer bottles, but the concrete wall is sold and the court still offers an opportunity to exercise (with caution).  There's something gratifying about bouncing that pink ball against the wall, chasing it around the court, pumping blood through my veins, working up a sweat. I put in my earbuds, the ocean as my backdrop and the Zen takes over.

Yesterday I planned to play for an hour before rewarding myself with a toe dip in the ocean and a read by the sea. I was in the groove for almost an hour until I was interrupted by someone crossing the court.  I caught a flash of black fabric in my periphery vision and pulled out my earbuds before turning around to check.  There's absolutely no need for anyone to enter let alone cross the court. It was pretty apparent that this dude's intention was off.  He looked older but could have easily been in my age range. His salt and pepper hair was uncombed and his teeth yellow and untended. He was wearing long black shorts and carrying a plastic bag. He was talking, I broke the first rule of self-preservation by engaging in his conversation. I don't know why I did, in my mind I thought maybe he needed something innocent like knowing what time it was. No, he asked me if I this was my regular spot, and I politely informed him it was my first time here.  (Stupid, I know; I don't know why I said that.) Then he wanted to know if we could spend time playing paddleball and tennis together sometime. I politely declined thinking that he would leave.  A rebuff usually works and then he reached out to introduce himself, and it was like a five alarm fire going off in my head. I was more bold then, clearly stating that I was not interested and that he should leave me alone. I backed away to the park bench, collected my things and walked, slightly convolutedly so he wouldn't follow me, to my car.

I was fuming by the time I got there, annoyed at myself for interacting and at the loss of a perfectly good workout. I sat in the front seat to cool down and then gathered myself for an afternoon on the beach.  I found a quiet spot amongst the hipsters in the west bay, and pulled out a book and a granola bar, settling in to  admire the view. The water was rolling, its waves criss-crossing in a game of Twister. The weather forecast suggested rain at the beginning of the work week and the ocean confirmed that something was coming.

The wind inspired a fellow beach-goer to try his hat at kiteboarding, which unfortunately was foiled by the local park ranger.  I walked to the water to watch the folks brave enough to swim the icy waters; I wanted to preserve my most recent memory of swimming in the Arabian Sea, so just toe-dipping for me. I turned back to the beach to return to my blanket, I spotted "Michael" the creepy dude from the paddleball court surveying the beach. Whether he was looking for me specifically or someone else I have no idea; all I could feel was the flare of annoyance and anger returning.

I had to walk past him to get to my space, and I instinctively knew he was going to approach me, again. I was prepared to make a scene if he tried anything, any thing at all. He turned around and acted pleasantly (sick in the head right there) surprised as if it was serendipity that brought us together, and just as he opened his mouth I told him twice: "I am not interested. Leave me alone." I never once stopped, walking away from him as I said those words. Walking toward my blanket, not sitting until I could see that he was farther down the beach. I really hope that I don't see him again, my beach is my sacred space and some wacky dude is NOT going to ruin it for me. I'll be carrying chili powder for my safety next time, if our paths should cross again, I'll be finding that park ranger to file a report.