I went to her blog yesterday. I don’t know what I thought I’d get out of looking at her last few posts again. There is still a Julie-sized hole in my heart.
Just remembering Julie.
It hardly ever rains in the morning here. It hardly ever rains period, but when it does, it’s usually in the afternoon, riding in on a monsoon wind, or in the evening, as the air cools. The skies are usually drained by morning. But this particular morning, the sky is crying.
Yesterday, I told myself I wasn’t going to be maudlin today. We’ve caused enough death in the name of 9/11; it’s time to stop remembering. But I’ve got a fresh reason for sadness.
My eyes always water in the morning—too much time spent staring at computer screens all day and they overcompensate. So, my son never noticed I shed a few quiet tears.
Because of her, I am a better person.
Because of her, I am a better man.
Because of her, I am a better parent.
Because of her, I felt less alone in my struggles with my own health.
Because of her, I resumed therapy that I had given up on, found a new counselor, and it is really helping, even in ways I never expected.
Good-bye, Julie. I love you.
We danced together. You don’t remember.
Nor do I.
We are star stuff.
We were boiled and baked and burnt in the belly of a supernova,
Born into the void, flung far from home.
And we danced.
We were vast. We contained multitudes. We were one
Disc of debris dancing in the darkness.
We coalesced a cloud,
Swirled a sphere,
whirled a world.
And on the seventh billionth day of being
Carbon, oxygen, nitrogen and phosphorus, we rested.
We danced. To a song of sugars and acids and proteins
We built ladders twisting and twining,
Scaffolds for life, climbing back to the sky.
Then one moment you were you and I was I.
We never touched. We never danced.
But there was love
Like knowing somehow we had once been
Both part of the same exhaling star,
Drawn together by its breath,
No more than a helpless vapor.
We will dance again someday,
You and I and all the others that love you.
A myriad of years and we will escape our tombs,
Diffuse from from our decaying coffins,
And become calamus and clovers,
Nibbled by lambs and kids
Who gambol away their lives
In a world of green
Round and round in the circle of life
Until Sister Sun grows gravid and ancient red,
Burns the land, boils the sea and engulfs the sky
And everything we are,
Then pulls us into her heart
In a final embrace.
We will dance in her fires till she turns to diamond and ash,
Watch the universe slowly crystallize around us,
And wait to see
What comes after.
I sing the Body, Atomic!
Born so long ago, I have danced to become, just
So I could know you,
— for Julie
BUT I LIKE TELLING STORIES.
Do your mom and dad know the kinds of things you say? DO THEY???
*avoiding eye contact* I have no idea what you’re talking about. LOOK OVER THERE, WHAT’S THAT.
YOU GO TO YOUR ROOM RIGHT NOW, YOUNG LADY!
I let mine get away with them most times. I don’t want her learning how to be a better liar.
My own kiddo just never lies to me. How long that will last, I don’t know. His friends, however…
Get busy living or get busy dying, Barkley. That’s goddamn right.
Barkley and I are going to open a little hotel in Zihuatanejo when he gets out.
I don’t even like it when my kid says, “What the…?” So I would say no and have put the kaibash on using the word “freak” in any euphemistic form. I am a bit on the strict side though.
I like the cut of your jib.
I second Jewles, although frankly, I believe that we censor children too much. There’s no reason why kids shouldn’t have the right to curse.
On the one hand, I get it. My son used to ask me, “Is ____ a bad word?” and I made several attempts, probably in vain, to explain how the words are not “bad” per se, but inappropriate in certain contexts.
On the other hand, …it just *feels* wrong to hear a small child using that language, especially with a certain tone of voice. It’s one thing to say intellectually “kids should have the right to curse”; it’s another thing to hear it, and feel my own visceral reaction. There is something deeply ingrained there, maybe even a genetic tendency, that I haven’t quite consciously reconciled yet.
Honestly, If he isn’t saying what the fuck I don’t see the problem.
I wouldn’t have expected this opinion from you, Nicky… which actually makes me give it greater weight. I respect you and your opinion deeply.
I don’t let Ben say it at ten-almost-eleven.
I respect you and your opinion deeply, too.
Shouldn’t it be “What the frak?” as popularized by BSG?
I actually thought of and considered this option in the fraction of a second before I reacted. This is how deep my nerdity runs. It runs to the core.