I'm at a restaurant a thousand miles from home, seated closely around a table with ten beloved family-in-law members. We are eating, drinking, chatting, unmasked, and I'm thinking, how the hell did I get here? Alarm bells clang in my head.
Marilyn was a family gal through and through, and she worked at being a good mother-in-law.
It snowed on Saturday, as the first person in our city died. It was a milestone that brought everything into relief. No going back, only forward. The first one - so much in that short phrase. Until now, no one in our city died of Coronavirus. Until now, and it won't be the last. The … Continue reading The First One
So many ways to die, I think, as I walk out my door The proverbial bus A stroke, a heart attack, cancer, acute appendicitis You have your own favorites I'm sure. If not death, then discomfort and suffering At the grandkids' school Pinworms, head lice, chicken pox, norovirus We went to get our shingles vaccine. … Continue reading Calculated Risk
Usually my feelings about Fall here in the Pacific Northwest are more mixed; excited about cooler mornings, rain in the garden, digging out warm clothes while mourning the end of languid days, sleeveless shirts, warm skin, and thriving gardens. Instead, I was fighting inevitable change, a losing battle.
Robert Hunter, the lyricist for the Grateful Dead, was also the lyricist for my life. His words threaded through my life since I was 21, when I met some new friends, Harold and Alan, and a community of people that became my tribe. Would I be who I am without Hunter?
My mind lingers on death more often these days. I tell Alan that if I become too demented and disabled he should smother me with a pillow, but he hasn't agreed. How about a commemorative plaque on a bench instead?