I have the flu...the story of the gingy amputee

I've had the flu for about a week now. It feels like a month. I can't keep track of the days vs. the nights. What time is it now? Did I take a bath today? Did I eat? Should I bathe? Should I eat? The boredom of it all...listless, feeling like shit....not caring too much that I'm bored, but then completely overwhelmed by being bored. Thankfully, I have TiVo to remind me what day it actually is by my recorded series manager and reality shows. Yes, thank God for that.

Being high on fever, my mind wanders. I opened a thing of applesauce, and almost put it in my cup of Miso soup. In my head that seemed normal, completely normal....catching myself at the last minute...feeling like I needed to check myself and realizing that I just needed a spoon for the apple sauce....and, rebelling completely against the feeling that it was still the right action to put it in the soup. Yeah, I'd better not drive anywhere right now. Better not....but, jesus, I feel like shit and am so bored. I don't have anywhere to go, but my own sick head. I want to smoke, can't. I want to eat pie, can't. I can't do anything. Even the cats are yelling at my blank stare. No, kitties, I can't change your cat box right now. Yeah, just go on the floor. The guys won't help me with you, because I'm the one that brought you all home. And you can't just go outside, you all took off your collars, remember? Just a few days. I feel like shit.

I saw a gingy on the television. I've never been a fan of the redhaired. Not really, at all. Yuck. White pasty skin with bright read hair....seems so wrong. Like the color wheel of human evolution got offended by something we did, or somewhere we went....yep, got pissed off and made the gingies. Oh, don't get so made at me....it's just a personal preference. And of course, there are exceptions to every group, even the gingies. It's just super rare that there's a hot gingy....I didn't make the fucking rules. The color orange doesn't look good anywhere but on a fucking orange, and maybe the sun....but, that's it. I didn't make the rules, sad gingy.

I knew a gingy once, when I was homeless. I chose some pretty bad places to be...anywhere but some place that used to be home. I don't remember his name. He was a drug dealer, and had been in prison. Not a high level dealer....not hanging with the likes of me. A bit white trash, and he was an amputee. His right arm just didn't have a hand. He was short and thin. And his one arm was just a bit smaller than the other, and it just stopped, no hand. It was slightly rounded around the edges of the nub, and normal pallor. It just looked like it was normal that way, all short and nubby, but your brain knew it wasn't normal and something seriously wrong had happened there. I did stare sometimes, wondering things like how the blood flowed in less time. I never wanted to touch it, like I might catch the nubbiness of it. And watching him move around with it. Yeah, he could move around with it, but he couldn't write with it....let's be reasonable....thumbs just do come in handy for some things.

I think it was some farm accident. Which is kind of funny in itself....all the accidents with farm equipment. You'd think we'd learn to turn things off before we put our hands in.

We got along alright. He told me once, when he was drunk and making a pass at me, about his sexual prowess with his amputated stump. I was a bit drunk, too. He told me how he would put his stump inside of the chick, and how much they loved it. I just blew it off....guys always like to tell stories of all the "awesome" stuff they can do. Blah, blah, blah.....That ole story again, like a broken record.

Years later, I was working at a bar. It was dark, and late, and I had my tray full of shots and beers. Holy shit. There was the gingy amputee, right there....the night lights passing back and forth over him. Even though it didn't seem like it, I was along way away from where I was when we knew each other back then. Yeah, I could be a little more picky about the company I kept. I had some things to loose now. I didn't want to have the reunion. I didn't want to have the so what are you doing now talk. Jesus, he still had a nub and red hair. The crowd was growing anyway, and it was dark, and I was busy. I could avoid it. I kept an eye on him, off and on, to see where he was, to adjust my space to not be in his.

Behind the wait station, I watched him wave his god damned nub in the air for service. Wow, another thing a nub was good for. I remembered what he said about women and his nub. Nub fucking.

I never saw him again. But, seeing the gingy on TV brought it all back. I used to work at a pretty sleazy porn shop for a bit. But, I couldn't remember any amputee porn. There had to be some, given all the other complete craziness I've seen....there had to be, right?!?!!

I called a trusted friend. This friend is trusted because I could call up and ask questions about things like amputee porn, and he would still love me, and not hang up the phone.....now, that's a friend.

I told him about the gingy amputee guy I knew. And what he had said. My friend searched for me, and sent me a couple of links to view.

And there it all was, all laid out, people with nubs having sex...using their nubs to have sex....nubby projectiles. I watched all the links a few times each...my mind turning them over and over.

I wasn't turned on. Maybe because of the harshness of all these examples of nub sex. I had to wonder if there was some kind of softcore nub porn with a back story of love that might get to me. Maybe, but, I doubted it. If someone I loved suddenly had a nub, could I do it? I'm not sure I could. And then how sad is that?....What kind of asshole am I that I couldn't even had nub sex with someone I loved? I would just be grossed out and tell them no. What kid of asshole was I?

On the other hand, what kind of pervert are you to want to fuck a nub? Do you have to put everything weird in every orifice just because there's a hole there? We are really stupid when it comes to sex. Now, I can't get all holier than thou.....but, we are ALL pretty stupid when it comes to sex.

I was horrified and fascinated and giggled. Stupid fever. Stupid nub fuckers.

I'm so glad I was never drunk enough to have sex with that gingy amputee. Still got a few things I can look down on.

The thread that binds.

There are some details that I will share with you, and some that I will only keep for myself. Some are truths, some are embellishments, not on purpose, maybe just for flair or just my own brain fooling both of us.

What do I have of my own personal history. Really only my own thoughts and examinations. It is not clouded by what others have shared or told me. There are not many records or pictures. It is only my thoughts and my words.

I do have a picture of my Grandfather. I took is when I went back home before he passed. It is one of my favorites. It is exactly how I remember him. Yes, that one snapshot embodies almost everything that I defined him by.

He is standing tall, even though I do not suppose he was really that tall. He is standing tall in front of his garage with his red hair fading to white in his coveralls. He worked on cars, and that was his shop. One of the first buildings to be built in this small town. He built his home, too.

I remember being at his shop with him when I was so small. He would pick me up, and his red chest hair would just be peaking out of the top of his coveralls where the zipper stopped. Not much for fashion, but comfortable, purposeful, determined, ready wear.

My grandmother would hem the pants of these coveralls for him. And when the zipper broke, she would put in a new one. She did a lot of sewing.

My grandparents are both past now. My grandmother the last to go. The chore of going through the things of the dead. That chore is such a strange chore. It brings out the greed in some, the sadness in some, the joy in others....all the while, the dead don't care - they are beyond material things. All the items we amass left to beggars, robbers, hoarders.

I was of the later, a hoarder. A hoarder of memories, and scents, and touches. Yes, I am a hoarder of such things.

In one box, was a pile of my grandfather's coveralls. I took several pairs. No, I did not have a plan for these items. There is no reasoning in hording, only shame - the shame that I wouldn't have a purpose for them. These items would lay waste in my own boxes, in my own closest and I would die and any memory of their purpose would cease with me.

But, there they were. The two pairs of coveralls, these particular pair - in bright colors - Colors that I was familiar with. And my hording shame turned to laughter and glee - so, much that I almost cried from laughter. These coveralls were in the colors of my own man's football team.

I would make him a gift. This gift would be funny and cause celebration and laughter. This gift would be from my family history of past, to my family history of the present. The coveralls would live and start a new tradition. I was so excited.

I never cared for sports. But, my man does. I supported him before, by making pigs in a blanket, and getting beer, and a large TV, and even a tattoo. We were good to each other like that. Both of us different and supportive.

When I got home with all of my things, I went straight away for the bag containing the coveralls. I showed my man the bag, and told him that it was a surprise for him. I made him promise to try them on as soon as he took them out of the bag. And not to argue with me, because it was important.

I shouldn't have worried that he wouldn't like them. Once he saw what they were, he stripped and donned the first pair immediately. He's a bit taller than my grandfather was, I would have to let out the hem. I showed him the picture of my grandfather. He understood the importance and hugged me; however, not without hiding his own delight with the gift. Although, their purpose would change, the history of past and future would remain and begin - A fantastic collision.

He went to get a patch of his football team to put on one of the pair of coveralls. But, he couldn't sew, not to say he didn't try. I awoke the next morning with the plea of help and a crudely placed patch.

I had not sewn for years. Although, I had been taught by my grandmother. It wasn't a skill that I particularly concentrated on. It didn't hold an interest for me, in the least. So, slow and boring. But, now, my man and the coveralls depended on me. In good conscious, I could not let my man go to his fantasy football draft in his fantastic coveralls with some half-assed patch. It was my blood that depended on this moment.

I still had the sewing kit my grandmother gave me. The coveralls were so cumbersome to work with, already sewn and divided into their folds. I couldn't find a place to put them, to lay them out straight to line of the patch with the pocket. I searched my home in vain for hours.

Then I found it, my eyes fell on it. Within the boxes of my grandparents things was my Great-Grandmother's sewing kit. Actually, it was right on top of the box that I hadn't put away yet. My Great-Grandmother had really been the super star of sewing - so, it's been mentioned. I found her old embroidery hoop and some thicker thread. I worked beautifully in holding the fabric still.

I squinted to thread the needle, just as I remembered my grandmother doing. I tacked the patch down with the stick pens from my kit. I knotted the thread at one end. And recalled the stitch my grandmother taught me to do.

As it would turn out, I had estimated the thread to be the exact amount that I needed to do the entire patch and only pricked my finger once... It was just a tiny drop of blood on the inside, no one would see. It was finished and secure. My man would be ready. He would look good. He would look proper.

I sat eyeing my work with some degree of pride. It was such a small thing. Such a small thing that represented three generations of the making. I was suddenly connected to so many threads. The thread that was the women in my family. The thread that was the men in my family. The thread that was my family now.

I took a picture.

Fight Club and 1st Cup of Coffee

My mind is fragmented this morning. That's is not unusual. I've really been a person who doesn't complete any one thing, completely unreliable and well meaning, filled with ideas, and distracted by shiny baubles.

Today I was thinking about the words: Respect, Non-Discrimination and Compassion.

Then my thoughts were were clouded with other words like: Control, Fear, Adrenaline, Greed.

This week I watched the news and an old man's first thought about his small town gasoline spill, and it was a VERY small town, was Terrorists. I thought how the words Control and Fear played a roll in this man's life, and how the word rebel has been replaced by the word terrorist. How the word accident has been replaced by terrorist. And in the same talk he used the word God.

I watched famous people fighting for control of government power seats talking about getting back to were our country was founded on. Really?!? We were drunk, ignorant, and full of hate for women and any race not white. I must be exhausting to be that needy for power, and ALWAYS having to be working. I was so tired just watching it all, and watching the destruction of the human spirit and free thought, right in front of me. ALL the Repetition over and over and over - not even new, it had all been said before. Fuck, that's boring. They all, also used the word God.

Then I have watched the building of other churches, and people rose to claim their evil...and all I could think of was people on racks being stretched until they broke, screaming in pain and fear, soiling themselves for God, in a prior time. How we all forget that history.

So, this morning I'm still waking up, and I'm still a bit sleepy. I thought of my own favorite fight lines, from my own history.

"I don't have to take this shit from a cross-eyed mother fucker."

"Eat dirty clothes, you bitch."

"Are we really going to fight over a burrito? How do you know I don't have a gun in my Honda?"

"Well, fuck you, you fucking fuck."

"Just shut-up, you scrotum-faced only hag."

Yeah, I have known the art of a fight or two. And fights are fun. But, then coming down after the adrenaline has stopped flowing, and the shame of hurting someone else, and the self badges of honor for hurting someone else....yeah, all that. Only to really gain much of nothing permanent.

So, this morning, I'm not positive if I want to join the fights for good, like education reform, etc. OR, do I just want to stock up on bullets for myself and the day when it all crashes because of the lack of those other three words.

I just don't know if I have it in me for either....let me finish my coffee first.

Silver Spiders

If there is truly order in chaos, than that does negate the very thing. Maybe there is ONLY chaos, or maybe there is ONLY order.

I am supposed to be watching my son perform his movie, he did make us tickets, but sometimes he pretends the same...and it is so hot, and my clothes are sticking to me, my brain is a bit foggy. I am distracted by the giant spider web to my right, hanging from my three story tree. The tree was so damaged in the storm, gnarled up, I'm glad to see the spider has some use for it. I watch the spider go around and around making the web, so fast, so busy, in the humidity. She finally sits in the center and waits; her body reflecting the light, making her completely silver, as though she was her own welcoming beacon for the suicidal insects....a whisper of comfort. I was torn. I wanted to strum my finger just once or shoo a bug into her web - but the nagging fear that I would upset something halfway across the world, those theories written by madmen with OCD. Did they see the silver spider, too? And then the oil spilled for them as well?

My son fired off his gun against the insurmountable foes of our backyard. I turned my head, never seeing the spider capture anything. And the web was gone by morning. I never tested one theory, or by the nature of it, had I.

Red

That color red. Colors varying in hues...red to pink....red to brick...red to heart. That color red that says innocence, blood, ground, anger, flowers, heat, stop...All those things under one small, three letter word. I bought some red jasper stones to send to a friend that I was thinking of. These rocks were shiny and different reds, deep in color and cool to my touch. I wrapped them carefully and put them in the box of small wind chimes that I had also gotten for her. Soon to send off.

My heart has jumped a few extra times over the last few days. My past and dreams collide with my natural beat. That color red. I saved some of the rocks I bought. I won't send them all off.

Maybe someday.

Will you still respect me in the morning?...No, no I will not.

I'm feeling hot and constipated lately. Usually a sign that I'm holding something in, and the lack of dookie is only a symptom of the larger picture.

I have always been running with scissors, for as long as I can remember. Now, not so much. But, lately, I have needed to run, run, run, chomping at the bit run.

I got the email from my father that my grandmother was in the hospital...she has cancer and is too weak to go through the treatments, she has jaundice. Is she dying? My father angry and chocked up said, he didn't know, but it was bad. I don't talk to my father. Oh, he's been in therapy, but, it didn't help him with me, even after almost forty years...but this was my grandmother. I would call my brother, who dad hadn't called yet, and tell him the news and let him know that I was going.

My father's sister recently died. She had cancer. My brother and I were not allowed to go the my Aunt's death bed, and we weren't allowed to go and be with the family...we were told not to go. Then right after her death, my father sold my grandmother's house without telling either of us, and moved her to live in San Antonio with him. My brother and I would each make our own trek back to the house before it was demolished to visit and say our piece, without telling our father.

I had the most history with my grandmother, who had not been nice to my brother, because he was my half-brother. Oh, how I wanted my brother to go, how I needed his support, but I needed it to be his decision - I was not going to manipulate him like our family had done to both of us so many times.

I slammed stuff into a suitcase and sped to San Antonio. I hated the traffic and wished that I had a sign that said my grandmother is dying, get the fuck out of my way or a battering ram. I finally found the hospital and my father. He looked like crap - his eyes were all red and swollen. He had gotten so much older. I never visit...it's not good for either of us.

My grandmother was awake and yellow. I told her how yellow she looked and how much I had missed her, and that I would be staying with her, I would have them move a cot right in. We held hands and hugged. I teared up....all those times, all those memories, from the earliest of my existence. She had always been there...always. I suddenly remembered sitting in the big Ford stationwagon in front of the PigglyWiggly's before they opened. Mamaw liked to be early...every Wednesday morning. I would get animal crackers to keep me quiet in the store, and I always felt bad about eating their heads, but, since I had already taken a very uncomfortable bite out of them, I should finish them off. Right back to being knee-high to a grasshopper.

I couldn't be there with her after I grew up and ran from my past...not too many time, it would be too much, and grandmother was getting old and mean and a bit crazy. She accused me once of trying to steal her towels. I didn't, but if I had, I'm not sure it would have mattered...she grew up in the depression and in her old age had bags and bags and roomfuls of towels she had gotten on sale. But, I would be there for her death. I could do that.

My father and his wife didn't want me to stay at the hospital...I could go to their house and stay. No thank you, I'll take the cot. I didn't want anything to do with them. This would be so much, too much, my heart breaking, but for my grandmother, yes, for my grandmother. He hair was still long and done up. I loved her long hair, she always dyed it, but not now, just long and white with the bobbiepins. I would miss her hair. I would always die my hair, my whole life, but never would have the patience to grow it so long and beautiful.

The first night she cried out. I moved the chair by her bed and held her hands I slept there crumpled up. I would miss her hands. I was suddenly aware of her hands. Her hands that had made me clothes, fried chickens, picked apples, spanked me....I would miss those perfect hands that had done so much for me. Her hands knotted in pain from hard work and age...that time she was putting cream on them, and I ask her what that was, and she said BenGay, and I said how long? I didn't even know what the joke meant. She scowled and had eyes laughing.

At some point during the night she woke up and was lucid. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her beautiful blue eyes that had looked at me forever. I told her how much I loved her, more than my words could say. I thanked her for taking care of me and teaching me, and making me. I told her that she had done such a good job, and it would carry though my blood line. I told her that she was beautiful and we were all ok. She had done her job and we were all ok. She saw me, and she told me she loved me. We sat together, holding hands, until she went back to sleep.

She would only get worse over the next days. Crying out in pain, and not completely there anymore. My father was there...he never held mamaw's hands or stroked her hair....They had a horrible relationship. Funny, she was great to me, shitty to him, he was shitty to me, and I never introduced him to my son...so, we'll never know if there was to be a pattern emerging.

My father would take his usual digs at me, the way I looked, the opinions I have, all things that made be different. And then spend his time talking about all the stuff he knew or the stuff he amassed. He ran away from his upbringing too. Our difference was I was never ashamed of mine. I never had to prove that I made it. I made it, that's it.

I smoked a lot when my father was there. I talked with the other smokers. Smokers are a social group. We supported each other. The woman who's mother was in the hospital and being cantankerous. The woman who's child was in the hospital with cancer. The man who's nephew was in the hospital with a brain tumor. We bonded and shared our stories and grief in the ordained smoking area. We would never see each other again, or even remember our names...but, I remember their stories and I felt a great comfort there, at the trashcan with them.

The food was shitty and my strength was low....caffeine and nicotine, and calls to friends and my brother. I wanted my grandmother to go. She was ready, I hated the pain she was in. I hated that the hospital staff had to move her to change her diaper when she wasn't going to the bathroom anymore. I hated that they called it a diaper. Stop with the poking at her, please stop....but, hospitals are to try and keep you alive to experience those last few painful moments. We have made a mockery of death, I think. I wish that we had saved more of our Indian heritage. She would have gone better. I took a shower in my grandmother's room, much to the dismay of my father. "We don't usually use the patients rooms for that." Well, dad, I asked if I could, and other people do this and I'm not leaving. Always with the appearances. Appearances mean so much to people, which is impossible for me to keep up with, the billions of people on the planet, most who I'll never see again, what's all the effort for?

My father and his wife worked in the medical field. All the clinical answers you could want, but none of the emotional ones. My father loved rules...I, on the other hand, never gave much thought to them, rather, I pick and choose the ones that I think are important. And taking a shower in my grandmother's room wasn't that important. I didn't feel that much better after the shower...I guess I could have kept up that appearance...but, I smelled better.

Mamaw was finally moved into hospice. While they were getting her transferred, the family went to lunch. My father handed me a wad of cash to pay for parking. I used what I needed and gave the rest back. He insisted that I keep it...I insisted he take it back. My uncle and cousins had arrived. As we sat that the table in some "family-style" restaurant, I ordered my salad with ranch dressing. My cousin's wife didn't know much about our family. I started to give her the lowdown, including my Uncle Fred, and the fact that he'd been married several times, and probably had lots of illegitimate children that we didn't know about, we laughed. My father gave me the look and the angry voice, and stated that I shouldn't talk about that in front of his wife's family because they were very conservative. I shot back. The table was silenced for a moment. I'm not ashamed of my Uncle. And I don't care who doesn't like me, that's never important. I loved my Uncle. He's crazy and dying of cancer, but he had a ride...he had a ride with his life. You have to respect that.

We got back to the hospice and mamaw had been bathed and medicated. She was a little uncomfortable. I said, it helps if you hold her hands, she has comfort in that. A few minutes later, my father's wife would come in a make the speech that these people who worked here knew what that were doing and so we didn't need to tell them anything. Since I was the only one who said anything, I can defer that she was speaking to me....broadly.

My father's wife's family came to visit. They had children. The children loved my grandmother. They were all very sad, this was their loss, too. I was so proud and happy that they had gotten to see the grandmother that I had, that she had made that impression on them, too. How wonderful and magical is that. There were suddenly five generations at her bed. All that work, and love....we can only hope that we die that well.

Everyone left. My brother was on his way. My father had given him the wrong address to the hospice. I went to get the bad from my car to sleep there. The nurses came in. My grandmother was already gone. It was that fast, and quiet. She had been so tired. She stayed to say as many good-byes as she could. She was gone. I had missed it, but I had been there until the end. I had made it for her.

My face that had only teared up began flooding. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open and her skin smooth. I asked if I could stay a minute more. Yes.

I held her hands. I held her hands as though I wanted to just absorb that little bit more of her super powers. Oh, Mamaw. I love you so much. I didn't feel just a loss, I felt lost. I was lost somewhere, alone.

My brother arrived. He was angry that he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. I told him that she was really already gone, and he should go in there now and say what he need to say. I was so happy to see him. He's grown up and strong now. His hug for me was like a wave of relief...I was suddenly tired and hungry. My brother...

I told him how I had needed him for this, and thanked him for being my brother. We were only beginning our relationship recently because of the parents troubles. And we stood out in front of the hospice talking in the dark. A little comedy, I suppose...both of us not from there, lost, and smoking, crying in the dark....what a strange pair.

The van for the transport of my grandmother's body arrived. I saw them taking her out. I ask them to please take care of her, she is my grandmother.I know it's just a body, but it was raw and new and I couldn't quit crying.

I stole my grandmother's hairbrush with some of her white hairs in it before leaving. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it, and if you ask my father, I always steal things. I did steal a lot in my life, but not recently, or even within a few decades...but, I stole the brush. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

We decided to go to my father's house to stay the night. I really wanted to go home, but I knew that I was physically not able, and what of my brother...he had come for me, and what I was to leave him alone with my father? I owed him.

The house is in a gated community. It's very well put together. I was to stay in Mamaw's room. I went around touching everything in her room, smelling it. My father's wife offered me some things, as though they were now her's to offer. I didn't really care about the things, I just wanted to look and touch and smell. It would all be gone soon...gone.

Her dresser was the same and the one in the old house. Memories of my childhood and that dresser with all the lipsticks, powders, costume jewelry stacked high. The fake flower in a vase to the side. All the things that I was NEVER allowed to touch when I was little and it was nap time, and we would pass on our way to the big bed. I would fall asleep to my Mamaw's soft skin and snores. This dresser was so neat and tidy now, a product of moving in with my father and his wife. Not the beautiful clutter that she had stacked when she lived in the house....the beautiful clutter. I remembered the creak in the floor paneling of the gas floor heater, so I could never sneak a peak at anything. Now, I opened her drawers and saw the scarfs...she always had her hair done, and wore a scarf in the windy small town she lived in. I asked for some of the scarves.

I found her jewelry box in one of the drawers. I asked if I could look inside and hold it for a moment. It was the jewelry box. My father came in and took it from my hands, so quickly that it shocked my brother and even his wife. I grabbed it back, and stated that I didn't want anything, I just wanted to look and touch. He relented.

The box was old fake leather, with hinges, so when you opened it, there would be the first tier and then the deeper, larger second tier. It was faded pink. Inside was the jewelry. I started to look through it. I finally asked if I could have a few costume pieces. My grandmother loved her fake jewelry; large giant rings, beads, pens, always clip on earrings because her ears were never pierced.

We all sat around in a foursome. My father, his wife, my brother, and I, going through the box. My father made several comments about what I was not to get. How expensive this or that piece was worth. I didn't need any of that, and he was missing the point. I never cared about money or riches. My grandparents were not rich....fucking take it already have all of it...pile it up already. I only wanted to remember the costume jewelry that she wore. She was such a lady, something that I never really became. And she did it on a dime, buying remnants and fakes....bobbie pins and powders all that I will never be but will forever carry with me.

I remembered how mad my father was that my grandmother had started to give away her stuff to other family members before he was in charge. And how he got the lawyer and straighten it all out so he could take care of Mamaw and Uncle Fred. Always the same old shit with my father, and always the pointing fingers that never pointed back. Whatever, take it all.

It was almost bedtime, and my father mentioned the box of stuff that he had of mine up in the attic. I would finally need to take that, so he could start getting rid of stuff. I said fine, we'd get it in the morning.

Everyone left mamaw's room. I sat there looking around and touching things. I went to the bathroom and smelled her soap. I was exhausted and couldn't sleep. What does one do now? I wanted to be home. I wanted my mamaw. I wanted dinner. I tiptoed out, into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. Everything needed to be made or have a companion to make a meal. I grabbed some expensive, healthy chips and went and ate them on my grandmother's bed, laying there sad and crunching in the dark room that had a smell I couldn't forget, never wanted to forget. I breathed heavily and eventually dosed off.

I awoke, way to early to the sound of everyone in the kitchen. I would only ask for coffee and let everyone know that I was going to smoke. My father was already making some crazy huge breakfast, chattering away.

I stayed outside on the phone and smoking until I gained some of my senses. My brother brought his dog out and we huge out and talked and played. My father and his wife would be going to the funeral home to identify the body. I didn't know about that part...yes, I guess it would be sad if they burned up the wrong body. And there would be a quick memorial later that evening.

I told my father that my brother and I could got and finally get my box out of his way, while he and his wife were out. My father's face turned red, and his face angry, and he yelled that NOONE would be getting any box from the attic today!!!!!

What a shocker. My father has had the box for years, I have told him to mail it, I've tried to make arrangements to pick it up, I've tried to get him to toss it. It never ever seems to happen....like a carrot in front of the horse. I don't even know what's in the damn box.

I told all of that above, and he screamed at me that I was a bitch and a liar, A LIAR and if I thought holding mamaw's hands while she died made up for all the other times, that I didn't come and see her, well that just meant that I didn't love her.

So, there he was...the father that I had always heard from my entire life. The real father, the one that I never told his new wife about, the one that I kept my son and man hidden from...there he was.

I started crying and leaving. My father's wife came in and tried to get me not to leave...saying our family never did handle anger well. I said, I had come for my grandmother and now she's dead, and I am tired and sad, and I love people and they love me and I want to be around those people now. AND keep the box, I don't know what's in it, keep it, throw it away it didn't matter, I wouldn't miss it.

I packed my car and sat with my brother. I was leaving him with my father again.....that's what I did to him, his whole life. I didn't want him to be the peacemaker between us. I didn't want to have anything to do with my father. I didn't want to go to the memorial. I wanted to go home, and I was so sorry that I am so weak.

My brother would tell me later that my father held mamaw's hands and told everyone how sorry he was that he ran me away. Well, neither mamaw or I really heard anything.

I would go home, and I wouldn't unpack for weeks. I didn't bathe either. I would get a random email from my father about another memorial service for my grandmother in the little town she was from.

I'm not going. I didn't respond. I still don't know what I'm going to do with her hairbrush.