And, shoot, that title ended with a preposition. Sigh.

When Sarah Bickle wrote about her son’s illness, she mentioned teaching English to Spanish-speaking people. She remarked that they would use adjectives as nouns:

The kids did eventually learn to speak more correctly, but some of the phrases stuck with me, especially that Spanish transliteration: I have tired. I have hungry. . . Right now, we have sad at our house.

Well, as I was sitting on the floor sorting through some stuff – some things mine and some things Mother’s – I starting feeling as if I had a Big Sad. Time has been passing right along and I have not made much progress in going through my parents’ things and less progress in getting myself on a worthwhile track.

We have had a lot of involvement with my autistic grandson’s residential stay and his subsequent return to the house, which has involved a ton of social workers coming in and out. My other two grandchildren have been affected; we have all been affected . . . and stretched far into the red zone of our capacity for being elastic.

As I starting wandering in this directionless sea of thoughts, I considered that I had not really marked Mother’s passing, her ‘goneness’ and, oh, many of our interactions when she was alive. I was thinking that I was in a period of sad, but gradually I have come to realize that I have a Big Regret about who I was and who I am. I feel guilty. I regret that I brought times of sad to my parents. It hurts; it makes my throat hurt, cramping up until I feel the pain in my ears.

There is not a darn thing I can do to change it.

I am mad at myself, disgusted really. So maybe I am not exploding, but imploding. However, seeing that, I hope I have enough strength of character to buck up.  Actually, I am too selfish to totally implode and this is one time when that flaw is useful.

I think I need to talk with Rose.

Okay, I tried to get my mind off of it; I really did. And I went out to do something productive in hopes of making the house more inviting and cheerful.

Said in a grumbling hiss and then transcribed here:

I’ll tell you what I found – sticky, gooey, dirt-embedded previous attempts at improvement smeared on floors, counters, sofas, under tables and splatted on cabinets and walls and doors.

And asked rhetorically in a sharp, clipped monotone of total disgust through clinched teeth:

And why is this? I’ll tell you why. I live with complete . . . (here there was sputtering spasms of word searching).

I could not find the right one, although I tried out several.  So right now I am sitting here with my face screwed up in the angry AmeliaJake Venomous Furor.

I know, I know, I know, I know . . . I know all of the rise above this attitudes I should be adopting.  I know I should think it through when it comes to possible reactions and blood pressure spikes.

Good-natured people can’t understand that intellectual thinking does not sway my gut at all. It is a steaming locomotive of a drive determined to burst forth and

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