I inherited my father's brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and his curly hair. I have his wheezy cough and I hear it when I'm sick, and wonder how he got into my room, though he is long gone.
This winter we're back in the sleepover groove with the grandkids after a long hiatus. Fun but tiring. I somehow feel youthful and ancient all at once.
On the road to eastside Oregon, re-learning our social skills.
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.
Today the grandkids and I buried one of the baby scrub jays that live in the tall line of arborvitae lining the upper edge of our backyard.
A blur of activity, a brain that never stops, a trickster, a climber, a jumper, exuberance that makes me stop and watch, stop and breathe in her 8 year old essence.
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?
It was hard to know what disaster to pay attention to yesterday. And yet we keep on with our small lives, surviving, loving, laughing, singing. I'm privileged to be able to turn away.
Four years in Portland, and I'm no longer feeling quite Californian, and almost but not quite an Oregonian. I celebrated quietly and took note of how it feels now.