Easter, Death, and Life

This post just showed up in my Facebook feed, and I realised I once again forgot the date. It seems like it shouldn't be that hard, but I guess dates have never been my strong suit anyway. 

It's curious to look back on that experience with Mom and wonder if I'm getting any better at this. Does one actually get "better" at doing things like grief? No, I doubt it. Every loss and every person is different.

It feels strange to be sitting here, on a tropical holiday, while Dawn is back in the US taking care of K-onna's body and estate and stuff and all of that. And I can't do anything to help. And I didn't cancel this holiday, even though we literally left on the plane four hours after K-onna died. I found out while I was in the middle of getting grumpy at Koa for not packing his swim shirt yet. 

It feels wrong in some ways, but those ways are largely because I know it looks wrong from the outside. I'm quite certain there are people appalled that I'm on holiday right after my sister died.

But on the other hand, it doesn't feel wrong at all, not internally. I didn't cancel because what could I do if I cancelled? Nothing but sit around and be miserable. And K-onna would be so mad at me for that. She would be mad at the very idea that I'd stay home when I could be out celebrating life and drinking a non-alcoholic umbrella drink on a beautiful beach. So I'm sitting out on the sand, staring at the waves and watching the kids play and alternately having a marvelous time and also crying because I miss her. 

I miss her more than Mom or Dad, to be honest, which is a whole different muddle. I miss all the things she wanted to do on earth and never got to. So many things she didn't do because she was taking care of me. I miss all the times in the future when I'll get a line from a movie stuck in my head and I won't be able to call and ask her to help me remember what movie it was. I miss knowing I can call her and plot out our next story together. I'm sad that I didn't finish our novel before she died (it's still in the works, getting closer, but I meant to be done before now). I want to steal more story ideas from her, have her come up with plots, and have me write them. I'm sad I don't get another "Chickens in My Shower Cap" song.

And then, as I think that, I suddenly feel sure that I will in fact get another silly song from her someday. Because I know she lives on, and I'm confident that weird, quirky sense of humour and all her really great meter and rhyme didn't die with her body. And maybe she'll be willing to occasionally send angels down to whisper a fantastic plot idea in my ear. And if not, I at least have her files that she shared with me a few weeks ago, all the little scraps of story ideas she never got around to.

It's Easter time again, and if nothing else, I'm grateful both Mom and K-onna died at this time of year. There's been solace this week in reading that "surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows," that "He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces." It doesn't make the sadness go away, not at all, but it does feel like it's a little bit easier to manage.

I'm grateful for Easter and for the promise of good things to come and for the comfort while I'm sad. And I'm grateful for drinking fresh coconut water from the coconut and watching hermit crabs skitter on the sand and trying not to melt from the humidity. 

It should also be noted that in grateful most of our luggage (which got left behind somewhere in Australia) has finally showed up and I at least have deodorant again. Sometimes it's the little things.

Sorting through stuff

 Pulled down a box this week of random papers to sort through. So much stuff I had forgotten! Here's a recap of some favorites so far:

A list I made in high school of qualities I wanted in a spouse. I got them all!

A picture of a rock monster drawn by 3yo Coriel.

A birthday card from my mom when I was six. It's always bittersweet to run across things from her. She was a great letter writer.

This statement that Brice made and I wrote down, dated 22 January 2007. "If cuteness was a flea, you'd be a flea circus!"

The kind and encouraging notes my brother Makani and best friend Kati wrote me for some random assignment in high school.

Remembering that we used to say "ecstatic like a biscuit." I think maybe I'll start that again.

A random drawing by Brice.

The really bad underwater photos from our Hawaii trip.

A photocopy of the very worst typo I ever saw in person.

A Tribute to Pie

When I was a kid, we moved around a lot. Always in the same general area, but always far enough away that I ended up at four or five different elementary schools. That made it virtually impossible to really stay friends with anyone for very long.

Enter my big brother.

Makani (hereafter known as Pie, for reasons that take too long to explain) was an excellent friend, with the bonus that I could always take with me when we moved. He’s almost four years older than me, and you’d think that would be too great a gulf for children our age, especially since we are the opposite sex. But it somehow wasn’t.

Pie was the best kind of brother and friend. He occasionally let me play when he and his friends were doing D&D, but even when I wasn’t invited, he was still kind when I intruded. When it was just us, he would pretend to be a monster (level 1–10, depending on the challenge I wanted) and chase me around the house until I defeated him. Another time he set up a silly restaurant for me and my friends, menu and all. The grated cheese with cinnamon and sugar on top was the best. Yum.

I remember as we walked to school together one year, I would called him shrimp (he was on the short end), and he would pretend to hide from the cars we passed, afraid that they would want to eat him.

As we grew older, he was my idol. He competed in MathCounts, and I followed in his footsteps (I loved math on my own, but I know his example contributed to it). I knew that he was in debate in high school, so I wanted to debate too. It’s funny—because of a mix up, he had a trophy for Lincoln-Douglas debate, even though he actually did policy. But my brain latched onto L-D, so that’s what I did, thinking I was following in his footsteps. I just wanted to be like him.

Me, the hubby, and the handsome brothers
(Pie is next to me on my left, your right)

We’re both adults now (obv), and we’re both terrible at keeping in touch. But that doesn’t particularly matter, because I always know he loves me and wants the best for me and believes in me. He is a man who helped form my view of what a good man is. Because of him (and my dad and a few others, of course), I grew up without that stifling feeling that some women have of needing to pretend to be dumb so that boys will accept you. He never expected me to be anything other than smart, funny, kind. The men in my life were never intimidated by my success as I was growing up—they expected and supported it.

He was one of my first writing fans, but he manages to not make me feel guilty when he asks how the writing is going (since it usually isn’t). He’ll buy copies of my books (probably more than he needs) if I’m ever published. He and his wife did more for my wedding reception than I probably know—but I do know that they bought a great deal of the food and helped a lot with preparations, without making me feel like a burden. He has always been willing to help me in whatever I need.

I got to see him recently, on a trip out to Utah, and it was lovely. We hadn’t seen each other in over two years. We talked and talked and talked while our kids played and generally entertained themselves. It was happy but also sad. I miss the get-togethers we used to have until everyone started moving and going their separate ways.

Last week, Pie turned one year older, and probably a year wiser too. I’m grateful to have him in my life. In an art class I took in high school, we had an assignment that required we each bring a photograph to work from. I chose one of Makani, maybe five or six years old, standing in our front yard in a Superman costume. That’s who he was through all my childhood: my hero.

Happy birthday, Pie!