No interest in today. It’s tomorrow I care about.
Tomorrow would have been the the 37th wedding anniversary of my parents. (Hold it together, Kitten, don’t shed tears, although you in cyber land wouldn’t see, would you?) As I’ve mentioned before, my beloved Pops passed away six years ago from cancer. My beloved Mom is a widow. As much as I acutely miss my Pops–and it’s so, so acute sometimes that I cannot physically calm myself down–I’m thinking of my Mom today and how she’ll feel tomorrow. Her feelings, her everything, is incomparable to what I or my siblings go through.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about meeting Dad and noticing that he traveled with an entourage. Such the big man on campus, Dad.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about how Dad refused to wear a suit to his wedding and wore, instead, a Hawaiian shirt.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about the difficulties of those early days of their marriage, and how, eventually, things finally started to settle down.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about telling my Dad, three years after they married in 1975, that yours truly was on her way, and how my father was so not ready to become a father and how, after my birth, I was deposited on his belly and he was informed in no uncertain terms, “meet your daughter.”
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about how he quickly fell in love with his first baby, and the three more that came after.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about the gold watch he gave her for one anniversary (us kids helped him pick it out!) or the new carpet she received for another anniversary (which I think made her more far more emotional than the watch).
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about dancing in the living room to this song with her husband and kids.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce how, because he was feeling kinda shy that day, my Dad asked me to tell my Mom that he loved her. And how she smiled, rolled her eyes, and undoubtedly loved that entire moment.
Tomorrow, she will likely reminisce about the fact that from the age of 17, she was never without him or by his side. Until 6 years ago.
But she (and we) has high hopes for the future and she (and we) has a million memories. Which are all pretty great to have, in light of not having the Real Thing, which is him.
It’s been a while, yes. I have no excuses, no. I’m going through that weird, are-we-still-in-winter lack of motivation, where I do nothing of the following: write, think, work out. Instead, I do all of the following: wallow, frown, eat. BUT, I’ve been eating quite well lately. Staying largely away from pastries and bagels (since I’m of the belief that I would shove an old lady out of the way for a blueberry bagel, this is pretty significant); balancing protein, fats, and carbs, whatever all of that means; choosing cereal for dinner from time to time. These are all good things, so I suppose I haven’t turned too much into a mid-winter lump. Don’t get me wrong, though: we have entered Lump Phase 1,000, for sure. More so emotional/metaphysical/mental/ lumpification. Anyway. A few other things I’ve been up to:
Apartment hunting. In Paris.
Falling for this guy. (See The Artist as soon as you can.) He’s French, by the way, to keep with the theme.
That’s about it, folks. Oh, wait: I’ve also been eating the following quite obsessively:
You were expecting French fries, weren’t you? To keep with the theme?