I’m being a little loose with someone’s privacy here, but I think it’s necessary for people to have some exposure to the forever grief of losing a child.

It’s not just a day. On February 2, I published the post right below, which for today will remain there. Jody’s father sent me this message a couple of days later:

Thank you for Remembering Miss Body’s birthday. I couldn’t bring myself to post a comment. She died on Easter 3 years ago and I still can’t bite the head off a damn chocolate bunny without bawling.

Then, later, he wrote that she was his sunshine. I understand his not being able to post a comment . . . because he loved her so much. And I can also feel him thinking that he just had to . . . because he just loves her so much.

Because we have had so much snow, we have had to actually take the time to deal with it. That can keep your mind and    body occupied. And because we have had so much snow so often, everything has remained white – really white. No dirty snow to speak of at all. I had not thought of it before, but all that whiteness has made things very bright, even though we have had very little sun.

Yesterday when I was shoveling to keep ahead of what I am now calling “the bliz-zard”, I had to put my glasses in my pocket. It wasn’t so much that they were steaming up, but that the transition lenses were getting so dark, it was difficult to see.

I remember one January and February a few years ago – probably documented somewhere on this blog – when we had continuous clouds, but little, if no, snow.  Then, one morning the sun did come out and I was astonished at how much the change in angle had occurred during the cloud out. I actually remember staring at objects lit by sunlight and really feeling good about it. It had been a gradual thing – this forgetting about the sun. There was daylight and there was night; I didn’t think about the sun really. Of course, Indiana in the winter is dreary; sometimes, it’s just better that you don’t see debris of winter in all it’s shades of brown and gray.

When we lived in Sacramento, all those decades ago, I used to think I had to go out on every sunny day and enjoy it, because, you know, I was familiar with Indiana weather and clouds rolling in. I about killed myself savoring all that blasted sun. Day  in and day out, Well, as Gilda would say, “It’s always something . . .”

When I came awake in the dark this morning, I was aware of the sound of a strong snorer as heard from another room. That’s what it sounded like, but it was not; it was Shane curled up on a soft comforter on the floor beside me. It was either Shane or it was the monster finally coming out from under the bed. I suppose there could be other scenarios, but by this time I had peeked over the side and, yes, it was Shane.

Dog snoring is not quite like people snoring; I had the sensation I was lying next to a low-pitched engine that rhythmically slipped into a more powerful gear. It actually was soothing, once I got the monster idea out of my head. Unfortunately, my throat was really dry and sore and I wanted a drink of water . . . and, okay, maybe I wanted to go into the bathroom. Shane lay right where my feet would land if I swiveled to get up. So I thought about it.

When I faced the fact  I was not going to be relaxed at all, I sat up, swiveled around, stuck my legs straight out . . . and tried to angle myself up with my feet contacting the floor beyond him.  I don’t know why I even tried; he immediately opened his eyes, took in the situation and, I’m certain, thought: “What does she not understand about doggie protective alertness?”

He did not move, however, until I decided that it would be a good idea for him to take a bathroom break while I was up already.  I wanted none of this settling back down and then feeling the cold nose nagging on my cheek. He seemed put out . . . and, come to think of it, that’s exactly what the circumstance was.  It was cold out there, so in my soft heart, I left the door pushed shut, but not latched. His bathroom break was shorter than mine and when he returned, pushing the door open to enter, HE DID NOT TURN AROUND THEN AND PUSH THE DOOR CLOSED!

What does he not understand about basic protection? That’s probably not the question he expects me to ask myself. I’m betting he is suggesting that I leave a glass of water where I sleep and that I don’t drink after a certain time at night so I don’t have to get up before he wants to. I strongly suspect this because when I turned around after having shut the door, I saw him lying nearby, watching my every move. I thought I heard a voice in my head: Gosh, she’s a slow learner.

Well, okay, Shane, I’m sorry I’m not the equivalent of an Australian Shepherd, one of the supposedly really smart dogs. I’m a mutt. I admit it. Heck. I scored a 76* on an online IQ test, so cut me a little slack, okay?

*This is one of Summer’s nicknames for me: Miss 76. I should have never mentioned it to her; that WAS stupid of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on an online IQ test . . . so cut me some slack, okay?