On Monday...

Dear Aunt Peggy,
I keep expecting you to call, even though I know you're not going to. I keep expecting you to leave me a voicemail message, saying, you know, "what do you want for lunch on Monday?" And I keep thinking "what am I even going to do on Monday?"

I've had a lot of suggestions.

"Well, you could always catch up on all your reading." or...
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you have plenty of time." and...
"What will you do on Monday?"

My answer is, I don't know.

What will I do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

You're not going to be there and I keep thinking, "man, I kept putting off cleaning those pictures for you. And, man, I kept putting off going and seeing you there at the end. And, man, I did a lot of putting off didn't I?"

And then I keep thinking you never broke any promises to me before now. In one fell swoop, you broke several.

I don't have a picture of you. Besides the one I took on my phone when you weren't paying attention. Can't see your face.

And you broke your promise that you would live to 100, 'cause we still had seventeen more years to go.

And, you know, broken promises. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you'd been able to keep them.

But I keep thinking that you had the spaghetti and meatballs all ready. And that you were so excited we were going to have spaghetti and meatballs because we hadn't had it in a long time.

And I keep coming back to "what am I going to do on Monday?"

Because we're not going to get to share our McDonald's cup of coffee anymore.
And we're not going to get to eat goulash together anymore.
And we're not going to get to rant at Pat Robertson anymore.
And we're not going to get to do any of those things anymore.

So, what am I going to do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

What am I going to do on Monday?

I thought maybe I'd still come and share a cup of coffee with you.
And maybe I'll bring my books and I'll bring a blanket to sit on so I don't get grass stains all over my rear.
And maybe I'll go and buy a chocolate soda.
And maybe I'll figure out how to make goulash on my own.
And maybe I'll use those potholders that you gave me.
I'll put up all the knick-knacks you gave me.
There's a lot of maybe's.

But Aunt Peggy, I'd much rather be with you. I'd much rather actually be getting to see you than wondering what it is I'm going to do.

Who am I going to watch "The Price is Right" with?
Who am I going to banter with about who pays for what?
Whose going to make me ham salad even though I don't eat pork? But I eat it anyway because you made it. The only time I ate pork for a really long time.
Whose going to worry about me while I'm off gallivanting in DC and whose going to ask me what "erectile dysfunction" means and whose going to ask me all these questions I don't know how to answer?

Its not fair, Aunt Peggy.
I love you.
I miss you.
I'm sorry I didn't come and see you at the end.
I'm sorry.

The past has teeth

The best line, as far as I am concerned, in this piece is:
"Hate is a strong word, but it is the only strength I have left. How am I to forgive the men that severed the trunk of my family tree and used its timber in the fireplaces of their own homes?"

Old for my Age

Chronological age is the reason we have such a thing as "Statutory Rape." No matter how "old" she was, she was not old enough to consent to sexual intercourse. This was RAPE and it was just as cruel, if not more so, because this was a man who should have been teaching her, not violating her and her rights.
 
A lovely young woman has lost her life and in death has not only received even more injustice, but has lost any chance of true justice as Double Jeopardy would now be in effect.


http://www.xojane.com/issues/stacey-rambold-cherice-morales

Aussie Pride

Also Jesus didn't say that... It was quoted from the Old Testament (Genesis 2:24; written by Moses) in the New Testament (Ephesians 5:31; written by Paul). Jesus, quite literally, said nothing against Homosexuality. If you are a pastor, mayhaps you should actually know what you are quoting?

Endless Oceans of Time.

Two years ago I said "Sure, why not?" (no, really, we said that) when asked if I would take a certain man to be my lawfully wedded husband.

We've been together for five years, married for two. He is still my best friend. He still drives me crazy. He still makes me angry. He still makes me look at the world differently. He still makes me want to scream and rant and sometimes want to give up. But he still makes me want to hang on and work through it and realize that I've never loved anyone the way I love him. Even when he makes me angry. Even when I want to give up. Even when I think "I can't possibly take anymore."

Love isn't perfect. Love is not always kind. Love is not always gentle. Love is not always blind.

Sometimes love is cleaning up vomit. Sometimes love is fighting and clashing and still holding each other after you're done saying what you need to say. Sometimes love isn't love at all, but crosses over that ever so thin line of hate and then crosses back over, shaken by what it found on the other side of that boundary. Sometimes love is saying you are sorry, over and over and over again.

And it is all worth it, even if it doesn't always last. It is always worth all the effort you put into it. I have not regretted marrying you, Donnie. Sometimes I question "Why?" But I have never regretted it.

I regret that there are only so many days in a single lifetime to spend with you. I regret that eventually we'll be separated by this thing called Death.

I love you, dear one. Despite everything else. Despite ourselves. I love you.