Kissing

Kissing

I don't remember how Art kissed.

I remember how it felt.

Warm, sensual, desired, sexy, girly, vixenish, delightful.

When the connection was right, our kissing opened a door

that lead to ....


I kissed a guy last night.

He's not the first one that I have kissed

but last time, back in the earlier months I kissed for and

with the need to connect, to feel a male body intently intent on my own.

I kissed back then to shoo away the loneliness, the loss and to carry in the idea that I was still human, desirable and wanted, even in the craziness of grief.

I kissed back then to fill a need that, as a woman, is not "polite" to express.

I kissed to see if I could wihout tears.

Last night I kissed to engage.

I know now that I'm desirable

I know now that I'm "catch."

That power changes the way I kiss.

I kissed him coyly.

I kissed him knowing firmly where I will draw the line.

I kissed this man to see if I liked the way he kissed. (I did)

I kissed him with delight and adventure and exploration.

When I kissed him,

warmth came, vixen appeared briefly.

Connection.....

too far away to see.

I laid in his arms and it was pleasing to me.

As I crawled into my bed last night,

I'm still lonely.

And I'm confident.

it's completely bearable.

I can wait.

I can do this kid/life thing on my own if I have to and we will be better than OK.

The grief has settled (FOR THE MOMENT ONLY)

and what is leaves in its wake is patience and clarity.

Art and I had a unique, strong relationship.

Now, on the cusp of 46 yr old, I take all that (and my wrinkled belly and droopy boobs) and march out to find a new relationship.

As a different Kim (with a wrinkled belly, droppy boob and an ass that won't stay up no matter how many butt exersises I do.)

This new confidence?

I am not sure it was worth his death.

But it's darn nice result of it!

Here's to a lot more kissing!

Guilt

I wanted to touch base on guilt, as I believe it has played a role in my grief with Michael's loss.

The guilt that he died and I lived

The guilt of the things he never got to experience that I know have been.

The guilt of having eyes to still see this world's beauty and ears to hear its melodies.

The guilt of knowing that he would have handled this pain, loss, and life better then I could, if it had been me to go instead.

The guilt that is created in my over-thinking mind...fictional and factual.

The guilt has sub-sided though, as I know it is a belt of weights I buckled around my waist...a belt that never was supposed to weigh on my hips, my being, my soul.

You see, guilt was never a component of our life (even though I may have used it as a defense mechanism in a disagreement...bad Taryn), so it makes no sense that I would make it a part of my life now, and the love that is still ours.

But I apologize, to Michael and the others around me, for the moments where I let guilt's claws take their grasp on a moment that could have been put in the light it deserved.

Now I can't say that it doesn't creep up at moments where life is a-glow and I feel as if I'm surrounded by a bubble of positivity...but those are just the workings of my brain....
not my heart.

“Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.”
-Coco Chanel

the bomb

Image from Heberger

Occasionally, I will meet a stranger in a line-up or a clerk at the store who notices my oft-perceived masculine purchase of a hammer, a litre of oil or a case of beer. Sometimes, people standing closeby will make a comment about my husband and how lucky he is that I'm buying him this case of beer, picking up the oil or replacing this hammer.

When Jeff first died, these comments hurt. They broke me. They reminded me, as if I needed it, that he was gone. Dead. And I was alone.

I felt hurt and angered at these people. I wanted to scream at them that they were not only sexist but insensitive and nosy. So I'd just simply say, "My husband is dead."

They'd stare at me in shock and search my face for signs of jest. I'd stare back with tears streaming down my face wishing they could understand and hating them for not.

Now, I actually find some form of morbid humour in shaming these people into submission. I find it amusing to watch the horror, embarassment and guilt cross their face. I know I shouldn't enjoy it. But it is kind of....funny.

I don't wear my black veil and dark clothing. I think my eyes have mostly lost their hollow depths. To anyone looking at me, I look like one of them. The 'normal' ones. The intact ones. The married ones. There are no markers to alert someone of the bomb that I carry around. The thing that most people don't want to talk about. Death. Grief. Mourning.

Many people shy from these topics. Steer around these landmines. Avoid discussion of this eventuality.

So when it enters a conversation so abruptly and without forewarning, it's sudden unexpected elephant in the room and no one knows how to remove it.

I find that use of this giant pachydrem to chase away masogynist and preconceived notions is endlessly entertaining.

"What did you do to upset your dog so much that he's on antidepressants? Ha ha ha"

"My husband died."

"Hey Sweetcheeks! Can I buy you a drink?"

"My husband died."

"I am sure your husband will be able to unplug the toilet with this snake in no time flat."

"My husband died."

Dropping the 'bomb' has its' uses and I am finding it so....perfectly perfect that Jeff is still providing laughter and protection to me in death. (Although I realize that this is most likely a cruel and immature way to get my kicks)... Honey, you the BOMB!

another 25th

fucking 25th

i thought we were

going to skip this day?

here it is, 25th #3,

#3 of a billion yet

to come.

not awesome.

have a shitload of

laundry to do

after the trip,

but it’s been

exactly three months since

liz

died and i can’t stand

looking at the washing

machine, let alone

trying to use it.

i don’t remember

if i mentioned this before, but

liz

loved the

washer and dryer.

after using shared

laundry facilities for

11 years,

she was ready for her own.

she made sure that

these machines got

delivered the day we

moved into our house.

now i have to walk

through the office so

i can avoid looking at the

liz

machines in the corner

of the kitchen

(house is small, kitchen = laundry room).

funny thing is,

i did most of the laundry.

her job was to fold.

(i hate folding clothes).

didn’t leave the house

during the day.

just spent time with madeline.

she did this



for a little while.

sort of epitomized

how i felt.

Venting ....

..... I am angry this week.

I'm more than angry.

(I'd say that I'm pissed but I don't want to appear un-lady-like.)

I'm angry at a certain person and the anger is magnified because he's not even here to notice or deal with it.

Yep, I'm angry with Jim .... who's been dead for 2 years and 2 months (but who's counting?).

How dare he leave me here to be a single parent?! Parenting was already challenging enough (a nice word for horribly difficult) when there were 2 of us, but at least we had each other.

At least we gave each other the strength we needed to stand firm.

At least he was here to listen to the teacher messages and read their e-mails.

At least we backed each other up on tough and unpopular decisions.

At least there were two of us to bounce ideas off of.

At least we were both here to share the blame when the kids were unhappy.

At least ......

At least he was here.

And now it's just me.

It's just me who gets the messages.

It's just me who makes the decisions (and I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time).

It's just me gets the blame.

It's just me who feels like I suck as a parent now.

It's just me who worries and wonders what the future holds for the child who just doesn't care.

It's just me who is constantly guessing at what works with bigger-than-me teenage boys.

It's just me who feels like a complete failure.

It's just me.

And I hate it.

I, like the rest of you, didn't sign up for this.

I know that he, like each of your spouses, didn't choose this ..... but sometimes, on weeks like this one, that doesn't matter.

Yes, it's irrational.

Yes, it's immature.

Yes, it does no good.

But there you have it ...... I'm still angry.

And I very much want to quit.

I want to turn in my parenting badge and say, "I give up. I can't do it anymore. Find someone who knows what they're doing. I quit."

But I can't seem to find the person in charge who will take my resignation.

I don't know where to go or who to talk to about quitting.

And so I write.

And vent.

And keep breathing.

Do You Mind?

Hi honey,

It has been such a long time since I have written you a letter. In fact, my eyes are welling up now realizing that I talk to you all the time in my heart but those words are no longer committed to paper. Remember the letters I wrote to you every day for the first year? I spilled my frustrations, feelings, fears, and memories across every page. More often than not the ink ran because I cried all over the journal paper as I scribbled frantically all the words I desperately wished I could speak into your ear.

In the last four and a half years the pain of your death has changed for me. My heart has healed some, and the open wound that used to bleed all over the place has slowly been stitched up by time, leaving a scar that permanently altered the shape of my heart. At first I held on fiercely to the pain of losing you because it was the only way I knew how to hold onto you. When I felt miserable I somehow associated that with being loyal to you and to us and to all that we were supposed to be. I feared happiness more than I feared loneliness. I would have rather been dead than alive, and was seriously annoyed by the fact that I kept waking up every day. But slowly I have found reasons to live, despite the void that losing you has caused.

There have been times over the years when I just wanted to ask you one question. The urgent thing I needed to ask has changed a million times, but the desire to ask just one more thing remains. So today I have one really important question to ask, and since you haven't yet materialized for our meeting (and I loved that one dream when you did...why did you only show up once?!) I have decided that I will resort to letter writing once again.

I know that you watch me, and the kids...I feel you now and then as if you are standing over my shoulder...and I know you have met Michael and that you've even had a few talks with him. But what I want to know is this: do you mind?

Do you mind that I hold his hand like I used to hold yours? Do you mind that his arms have begun to feel like a place I could call home? Do you mind that there was a time that I could never imagine loving someone as much as I love you, but I do love him that much? Do you mind that he sleeps on your side of the bed? Do you mind that he bought me a gorgeous engagement ring with the same center stone as the one you bought me? Do you mind that he thinks I am a princess too? Do you mind that he knows that in many ways your loss is his gain? Do you mind that I took him to the lake with our best friends, and we had a great time? Do you mind that I love that he doesn't think sleeping past 8:00AM on Saturday morning is a mortal sin? Do you mind that I am relieved to have a partner that loves to dance? Do you mind that he takes me to sushi at our favorite place? Do you mind that I added photos of him and I next to the photos of you and I that are spread all over the house? Do you mind that he helped pick out Caitlin's car, a job you would have surely done. Do you mind that when someone says the word husband, I am beginning to associate that word with him? Do you mind that his love has helped me to see the future in a sweeter light?

And, yes, I know that is more than one question.

In addition to the questions burning to be answered are the things I am desperate for you to know. Here they are in no particular order: I love you, and I will love you into eternity. Loving you changed me. Losing you changed me. I can feel you when I run, and hear your voice. Please stop being so bossy. I am still afraid to say good-bye to you. My heart sometimes aches for you so much that I feel it is breaking all over again. Moving forward is really hard. I miss your laugh, and your giant smile. The kids miss you, and we talk about you every day. Your family is not the same without you. My family is not the same without you. Our friends speak of you often, always with love and admiration. You have a 5K dedicated to your memory. I know you want me to run on dirt more often than asphalt when training for the marathon. Some days I still forget that I can't call you to tell you something funny. Michael admires you, and knows that you will always have a place in my heart...I have a scar to prove it. Your life meant something to so many people. I will always be grateful for the opportunity to be your wife, and when I get married again I will need to know you are somewhere near, smiling. You taught me to be willing to take risks. I hope you are proud of how far I have come, and that you know I take you with me wherever I go.

And I have an answer for you. Remember when you asked me if I knew in advance that our marriage was going to end after a short time, would I be willing to marry you anyway? The day you asked that question I couldn't commit to an answer. I wasn't sure if the pain of divorcing (because of course I didn't even think about death) would be worth a short time of loving bliss. Today I know better. The answer is yes. I would marry you all over again, and live through this whole god awful experience, just to love and be loved by you.

The thing is, deep down I know the answers to all my questions...I just wish I could hear you say the words.

I love you,

Michele

Dance Party

Ezra at the end of our latest dance party.

I'm never sure how they start.

But there is this collective agreement.

A collective need to release the energy.

And so one of the kids turns the music on and we are having

A SPONTANEOUS DANCE PARTY!!!

We take turns recording our latest and most definitely best dance moves with our Flip.

We don't care if we are out of rhythm (which rarely happens because they inherited my dancing ability, not Art's...phew.)

We don't care how silly we look.

We watch ourselves in the reflection of the large dark windows,

calling to one another when we think we have done something really cool.

"Hey Langston watch this! Hey Mom did you see this? Hey Pallas does this look stupid?"

We are laughing and moving and sweating.

Are legs carry variant loads of our body weight, our hips gyrate, our belly's tighten as our minds focused on giving our bodies just the right command:

jerk your shoulders back, but gently,
wiggle your butt but only on the third beat,
swing your arms to the left, then only the left to the right.

We each try to imitate something the other one does.

And then I am playing mom again.

Time to get ready for bed.

We are panting and smiling and grateful for the trust, the intimacy, the freedom to express ourselves to music.

And in those moments, I see us as a family.

A whole family, not one missing a dad,

but one that is strong and loving (and has good rhythm.)

and I know this is what we do for each other.

We dance

We trust

We release and in that dance party, all is well.