Nancy Ann

Never knew who her biological mother was and that bothered her, this possible other family that might want the return of their blonde, blue-eyed Irish daughter. She knew her birth name was McMahon, that her mother was fifteen years old and second generation Irish, and that her father was a toy maker. No further information could be gotten from the records the day we went to Our Lady of Victory orphanage, even though it was there in black and white Courier font. the woman who searched for the birth date given said with a direct look at Nancy, "Sometimes our parents are right..." when told that her adoptive family said her name had possibly been McMahon. That seeming bit of information gave her a window to look in, an opening to imagine a family with brothers, sisters, and a heritage of Irish belonging here in Buffalo, New York. We searched, I searched microfilms of old newspapers in college and the central library downtown with no luck in finding a girl born under the name of McMahon in 1952, November ninth.

She once was beautiful to the point of disbelief. She taught me how to put on make-up, hitch hike, and walk with a swing. Her adopted family was not what anyone would hope for, and it wasn't until adulthood that she developed a loving relationship with her father. I am not going to disturb memories of her mother, who may or may not have known how to love her new child throughout her life. This question of lost love, unattainable love, just out of reach if only I can be good love drove Nancy to search for pieces that she tried to glue together into one human being, herself.

She was found by a housekeeper in the bathroom of the house she rented. I don't have the particulars yet, but two hours ago spoke to a voice on the line telling me she had passed away. I am in shock and feel odd that no tears have come. The day was spent at SUNY Fredonia for a problem-solving session related to my graduate courses and conversation in the car surrounded events we had experienced with ghosts. After reaching my car and driving back home through West Seneca, I wondered why I wasn't spooked by the talk, usually that sort of thing stays with me and sends tingles up and down my spine. Instead, there was a warm closeness around me, as if I were folded in wings, a blanket, loving arms. I thought it was my Grandma or Mom, there to keep me safe and protected. Now I know it was my girl Nancy, stopping in to tell me she loved me still. I love you too and will grieve, but now I am still in shock at this circumstance of events and the death that was expected to be soon, but not so. Thank you for letting me know that you are well and safe and in the care of the angels. I love you so, from Susan.

Suffering journalism

Time falls into silent crevasses without an eek, and before you know, the year is going into winter. Again you can see through branches after leaves are pushed to the ground; buildings and stop signs appear which once were hidden by green; a new landscape, a revelation of grey amid bone-bare branches. November is a brown month, even before the gravy pools in the mound of mashed potatoes that you shaped to hold a cup of the good stuff. Oh, gravy!

Too soon to look back to debrief the goings-on of the first eleven months, or should it be done with foresight so that the remaining month is planned out to the max? I consider myself lucky to be overloaded with the demands of this world, for it means I am alive and engaged with others. Sure, I'm the monastic sort with preferences leaning towards a porch and a shotgun, but to exist without interaction or risk isn't of worth to me.

This year me and my little cat family lost our Martian, whose remains are boxed and sitting on a dresser. What happens when I die? By law, they are not allowed to be put with me...my vet said to have their ashes sewn into pockets of my dress when buried. My lord, if they dropped me, such a foof of dust would arise from all of my cremated pets hidden in the seams. I will think of something. Martian's absence is still obvious.

And this. My friend Barbara also died recently on an early Saturday morning. She wanted to live, but faced the inevitable too soon from cancer. She was dignified, full of fun, beautiful in face, mind, and spirit. Her love continues. Pshaw, she would say.

Looking forward, what else can one do?

Thoughts on an agate bead necklace....

My grandma Ida, whom I loved madly, grew roses that blossomed in crashes of color and scent, their heavy heads nodding under the weight of the petals. Huge, round, cabbage roses they were, perfumed of attar that drove bees mad as well. When the big flowers relaxed and let go of their petals, I would gather them in the folds of my dress and take them in to spread on a towel so they would dry. Their heady scent would hold, and ply within the drawers of my dresser throughout seasons of snow. My grandma, I would think of my grandma when opening, searching through a drawer for a hankie or winter layers.
Here are the petals, almost alive. Deep rose colors, magenta scarves, the dry pink rouge she wore on her cheeks, it is here. The whorls of ruby magenta blending to white are spread before me, and fifty years of life have fallen away. I am seven, in my grandma's garden, and know a love so desperately deep that years later, when fingering a necklace made of rose agate and pearls like dew, her flowers, her voice, the sound of her skirts rustling speaks to me and I cry with longing and love. It is perfect, this piece.

Welcome back to my planet, currently viewed in the southeast nine degrees left of Calcutta. Thunder and lightning are traversing the lower atmosphere, much to the cats indignation except for Min, the black and white former porchsitter who lived outside for over a year before allowing entanglement with our big indoor orange boy Martian. Living outside would shake the phases out of me too, to the point of unphasement by usual sky temblors.

Min loved Martian, she fell hard to his indifferent treatment. Any time the hyper orange bastard would escape into city life, she followed. After she came to live inside with us, I would send her out after to bring him back as his outdoor sense could fit into the center of a Cheerio. He chased squirrels for maybe ten feet before the squirrel turned and chattered at him, causing him to puff out and turn tail, humbled and sorry. For all his forays, he never succeeded in bringing a mouse or bird home. He did exuberantly run up a very tall pine in the next door neighbor's yard--top of the world, Ma--got himself stuck, yelled his head off for two days before falling down half the height, saved himself on the branches before falling down the remaining way on the third day. Came home with resin and twigs in his fur and slept next to Brian, who he loved best.

Later in his life (it was only yesterday he arrived...), he developed heart, kidney, and pulmonary failure plus diabetes. I ministered medications and diets designed to ease nature, until he couldn't eat because he couldn't breathe, gasping in short movements. June 19th I took him for euthanasia and cried in his fur when he went. Min, who had fallen so hard for him, searched and searched throughout the apartment in deep resonant calls for a month past. She still misses him. I do too. He was a handsome piece of work.

I will write his story in my book journal, but maybe not yet. His ashes are still at the vet's; if I go there and pick them up, then it's really over. But I will, I have always retrieved the animals' ashes to bring them home quickly, but this, well geez, I don't know why the hesitation other than the closure to his life.

The storm has moved further south, echoes of rumbling fold clouds together still. Min sits behind my head as I type, her black and white self no longer able to sleep next to the orange cat, in Halloween repose. Let the storm shake out the heavy air.

Spring Post

One semester into this degree and I have earned a 3.91 average! Go me, but it takes a toll on life unless accumulating drifts of cat hair in corners is an accomplishment. I hardly had time for fast food and there were phases of grab and go starring raw carrots. The food at the college can only be called food because it was the same color as food but once bitten into cried aha I fooled you, now you can cry about the seven bucks you just laid out for this fake sludge more molecularly akin to rubber cement. Even the cheese on the crap pizza was a disappointment, and for lord's sake, how can you screw up cheese? No, no, I already know. Would you like to live next to the fake cheese factory? Me neither. What pumps out of those extruders is also found under the fingernails of every religious order. Off we go.