Man! The past week has just been crazytown. Between jetting off to Peoria and back (and by “jetting”, I mean “driving”) and a weekend jam-packed with things to do, plus something going on nearly every night this week? I feel like I’m flipping between watching high-octane racing (the metaphor for my craziness) and then some mind-numbing talking where I’m dragging my feet and gaping my mouth in disbelief that I’m not running anymore. (that would be the metaphor for me feeling exhausted. I provide the explanations as a complimentary service here at PassionKnit.)
I did, however, finish the Lost Points shawl, and wore it yesterday. It does not like to be broached, pinned, whatevered in place. I am also not inclined to knit with railroad yarn for another ten years, or until I have a frontal lobotomy, whichever comes first. I nearly got sucked into a super blowout sale at elann.com on undyed railroad yarn, and I had to slap myself quickly. ($0.90 a ball, people! But still! The ladders! The railroads! The pain-in-the-ass-to-knit-with factor! I resisted. Crisis averted!)
Yesterday also brought with it a cold front. I soaked up some of the Wo’s anxiety, for we have planted – brace yo’self – 39 tomato plants already. Brandywines, Romas, an entire assortment of heirlooms. He had so many plants he’d successfully grown from seed, he sold a ton on craigslist; then? Freezing temps. So he labored last night non-stop to insulate and protect his hard work, and I could feel the worry this morning. Fortunately, they did just fine, so we can only hope that they’ll continue to weather this crap – because there’s a chance of snow tomorrow – and we will be the lucky people with tomatoes before everyone else. Otherwise we’ll be the weeping people next week.
Today’s my two-year anniversary at the Job that Rocks, and the people I work with are some of the greatest I’ve ever known. (Former co-workers who read? You are still awesome. It was just crazy-ass circumstances that surrounded us….) I’m bracing myself a little bit for another anniversary this weekend – Saturday is the one year marker for the day my dad called me and told me he had cancer. I expect the anniversary of his death in June to be a lot tougher, but I’m also figuring out it just doesn’t matter what I :think: will happen. Sometimes it just happens. I caught myself in a shroud of unexpected sadness the other night when I let the dogs out. It was dark, but the full moon shone like a beacon, and the various constellations in the southern sky twinkled down at me. I immediately spotted Orion, and the realization that my father was no longer here to see the stars, the same stars, was like a kick in the chest. I’ve always felt a connection to the people I used to know (but don’t keep in touch with anymore) when I look at the sky. Because we all see the same stars when we look up at night. (well, ok, everyone I know is basically in North America. Let’s not get distracted by technicalities.) Maybe we don’t look at the sky at the same time, not even the same day, but I have always found comfort in the notion that an old friend is also turning their face to the night sky and noticing the stars and their arrangements. My dad used to gaze up at the night sky a lot, and I do it, too. I never really was aware of how that simple act created the feeling of connection – until it was gone.
Grief for me now is less the gut-wrenching, leg-breaking immobilization of the previous months. It is more like an actual physical experience I had last night, when I walked from the living room towards the kitchen in the dark – a familiar path, but my eyes had not adjusted to the darkness yet, and I mis-judged the doorway – cracking my elbow hard into the wood. Surprise, pain, so unexpected. There are going to be times I brace myself – the anniversaries, the events, the holidays, and everyone hears about those. It’s the painful crack in the dark, the light of realization under the night sky, the moments where life is somehow normal and yet you are reminded of the pain tucked away inside. Progression. Surprises. A return to routine. Summer is coming, despite the cold. Orion will be chased away by the scorpion, the inverted bowl of starlight above us will turn, tomatoes will ripen on the vine. You and I will look at the stars. I will cry, and I will dry my tears, and I will never, ever forget him.
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