This week, let’s think about language. Notice the places where words flow confidently and those where words falter.
You did too much
My mother admonished me after I made my way down the stairs into the living room…two days before Christmas in 1986. After I discovered blood where there shouldn’t have been any. My hand smoothing my slightly rounded belly – as if that would stop what was happening.
What I feared was happening…
As I called out from the small confines of our brand new second floor bathroom. A short distance from a third bedroom…finished a few months earlier. Space for a new family member.
My voice unheard over the cranked up stereo down below…You Better Watch Out You Better Not Cry…in anticipation of the holiday to come. My 4 year old daughter over the moon excited about Santa. And her grandparents’ visit.
You Did Too Much
Language that jumpstarted slivers of guilt. Mixed with grief and anger and fear.
Compounded by my doctor….who, hours later with eyes averted, added…
These Things Happen.
It’s Probably For The Best.
What did I do?…
The unanswered question wrapped around my heart…until the day almost a year later…when my beautiful healthy son was born. And I exhaled.
Nancy Merrill is hosting a photo challenge. The prompt this week: Grandparents
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PHOTO OR TWO FEATURING GRANDPARENTS OF ANY KIND.
I think of my grandparents often. I have written about them in this blog many times. I miss them still. I have included links to their birthday posts for those who would like a peek at the lives of these exceptional grandparents. Two of my favorite photographs are posted below.
My four grandparents were the definition of unconditional love.
Opa – my mother’s father, wrote me countless letters (which I still have). I was his “Pen Pal.” He showered me with words of encouragement and support in all my childhood adventures. His sense of humor is family legend. He awakened my love of all things cards and games. Opa and I would sit across from each other playing Pinochle for hours on end…one of my last memories of him.
Oma – my mother’s mother, learned to drive a car so she could make the 45 minute trip from NY to visit me – her first grandchild. At the age of 47. She baked birthday cakes for her grandchildren and made a mean macaroni and cheese. She wrote to me at camp and sent postcards from her and Opa’s many trips around the USA. We became very close as she spent her last few years near my home.
Grammy – my father’s mother, lived many hours away from my family…but she wrote me countless letters – full of details of her life “down South” with her sisters. After Papa died, I got to know her better as she made extended visits to stay with us. She was a character and not afraid to speak her mind. An expert seamstress, she made dress-up outfits for my sister and me. Doll clothes too.
Papa – my father’s father, made an impression on me during the short time I knew him…as he died unexpectedly the year I turned 10. I still have a few of his letters. I remember him as a quiet, sweet and patient man who made me feel special.
[As a grandparent to a spectacular 3 year old, I now understand how much fun it is!]
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #55: Reclaim
The things that women reclaim are often their own voice, their own values, their imagination, their clairvoyance, their stories, their ancient memories. If we go for the deeper, and the darker, and the less known we will touch the bones.
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés
What’s done is done. What’s over is over.
One by one she closed the chapters
it was so.
She shelved them high…year after year
Dust settled slowly
Coating spine after spine.
But that glimmer still surfaced
Again and again
A nagging suspicion…
Is done really done?
Is over really…over?
So she emptied the shelf
And cracked open each volume
To travel chapter by chapter
From whisper to shout
Addendum in process
The jury still out.