June 20, 2009

Linda writes, as the anniversary of dad’s death nears,

Tomorrow is the anniversary of dad's death. I am glad to be kayaking with the boys. I actually had the hardest time on the day of David's graduation. That was the last time that dad was out enjoying himself and he had a wonderful time. The parents still joke about dad eating every sweet on the table. He went back for seconds, thirds and fourths and everyone enjoyed him enjoying the time. He cried when David gave the graduation speech. He told me that when he gave his, Bill Stevenson had to help him up the stairs since there wasn't a handrail. I think he would turn over in his grave if he know that I had wasted the money from selling his van on a beautiful patio and hot tub which is half the fun of installing one. What is funny is that I of all people realize how difficult dad was. As the hospice nurse said, he was one mean son of a bitch especially at the end. For whatever reason, I loved him deeply and miss him terribly.

E-mail from Bailiwick in Chicago–not to me, but a general commercial. I was content to forego my contractual percentage of the house, to refrain from lambasting them for vandalism, so long as I thought they were defunct.

I worry at night what I should do to preserve, further, protect from shocks, protect alike from over-commitment and over-casualness, my evolving relationship with J. I ponder whether I’m laying it on too thick, spreading it too thin, sending the wrong signal, not receiving the right signal. If this were a movie I would think it was funny. I haven’t felt this way since I met TD more than twenty years ago. A friendship is almost as difficult as a love affair. No, it is much easier than that, which is, I suppose, why we have more of them. But still difficult. Still an art and a craft and not an automatic process at all, once you’re past sixteen.

When a fish in the tank dies, it is usually sucked up against the pump, where it fades and reduces until it is a faint paper image of itself.

Last night in the bathroom before bed I saw in the corner of my eye a large animal moving. I looked quick; it was a spider. The spider was alarmingly substantial, but I refrained from killing it, and spoke aloud into the room, “If you stay out of my line of sight, as you have done until this hour, we can both live here in peace.” The canny spider moved only when I looked away, and then half way across the room in what could not have been more than two seconds.

Late morning in the studio with J, then weeding in the garden, in the blazing sun which, unaccountably, failed to be uncomfortable. M and A’s wedding tonight. People wore gowns and suits to the rehearsal. I wasn’t ready for that.