The oddest mixture of melancholy, sentimentality and grief laced with a touch of whimsy has overwhelmed me the last few days. I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents, wishing I could see them, hug them, just sit and talk with them again. If only there were such a thing as time travel . . . and a madman in a blue box (yes, I’m a bit of a Whovian).
My dad’s birthday arrives on Monday; he’d be 94. Twenty-four days later my own birthday will make an appearance; I will be 54. I miss my dad (“Hello, Peanut . . .”); miss ruffling his salt-and-pepper laced hair (“Hey, now, you’ll mess up my curls!”), miss kissing those rather slavic cheekbones, his skin surprisingly soft and smooth after 80-odd years on earth.
After telling Daddy a joke, I miss hearing him say with an affectionate gleam in his blue-grey eyes: “I enjoy you.”
I’ve been dreaming of my mother, alive and well again and roughly the same age I am now, while I, in those dreams, am about 2o years younger–in my early 30s. The age correlation is all wrong for the time-space continuum, but I suspect it has to do with my mourning my old life, the one I left behind when I developed FMS/CFS. Thirty-three was, you might say, my last “good year.” The year before the chronic pain, insomnia, fatigue and general feeling my life was going to hell in the proverbial handbasket, settled in.
One recent afternoon while napping, I dreamed I was climbing a rope with footholds tied to it along its length, footholds made from small, colorful infinity scarves. My mother was on the ground cheering me on as enthusiastically as only a stalwart Tide fan at a U of A football game can do. I was so, so close to the top. Victory was within my grasp and I yelled exultantly, “I’m almost there, I’ve done it, I’ve–”
I woke up in the floor next to my bed, my wrist hurting where I’d fallen on it. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. Or, in this case, de wrist. 😉 Remember Daddy’s motto, a little laughter in life.
I feel not unlike an older house these days.
You know, one might say I have “character”and a certain charm you won’t necessarily find in a brand spanking new model in some cookie cutter subdivision. On the other hand, I have a number of things needing repair or replacement. I need tweaks and lots of updates. I guess you could call me a fixer-upper.
Actually, looking at my insurance co-pays steadily piling up, maybe I am more of a money pit. And judging from the likelihood surgical intervention will be required, the pit is beginning to feel like the Black Hole of Calcutta.
The back door of the old farmhouse. Loads of character. Could use some sprucing up, just like its co-owner.
All photos above taken by yours truly.
I need to work as much as possible over the next months, yet, as I type these words, the %$#@# pain is stabbing me in the left wrist even with the brace in place. If torn ligaments are surgically repaired, I will be out of commission for several weeks.
Right now, I really wish Doctor Who would show up. And no offense to Peter Capaldi as the new DW; I quite like the actor’s spin on the legendary character, but I’d really love for DW to arrive in the form of Richard Armitage. I wish DW would give me a disarming and slightly mysterious smile, hold out his hand and invite me on a adventure.
I found these at bing.com, not sure who deserves the credit. If you know, please give a shout-out. Apparently there are other RA/DW fans out there with similar fantasies . . .
I’d go back in time, and meet the Butler County farm boy who shot marbles and snuck off to smoke woodbine cigarettes in the pines, an awkward young knight who stood up for the shy girl being bullied on the school bus. I’d see the preacher’s daughter who skated on frozen ponds during the cold winters in east central Tennessee, silky dark hair tousled in the wind, cheeks rosy and blue eyes shining . . .
And afterwards, Doctor Who and the TARDIS could take me around the world to meet all of you. Imagine that. What fun we could have!
And maybe I’d see if the good Doctor would zap my wrist with his Sonic Screwdriver. Couldn’t hurt!
I have to keep hold of my little dreams and fantasies.
“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly
Hold fast to dreams, for when dreams go,
Life is a barren field
Frozen in snow . . .”