Mwah.

Hanging in my Aunt Gail's kitchen.


Miami by the numbers:

Zero: The number of times I went swimming while I was down there.

Two: The number of Oprah magazines I made it through.

Way too many to count: The number of beers, glasses of wine, margaritas, mojitos, and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and vodkas I drank.

While the drinks were plenty and the food even plenty-er, we were most nourished by each other while down in the Miami sun. My aunt, Dan, two nieces, two bros-in-law and two sisters; it was a holiday without the pressure. Every minute was different---ten days of love and sadness, laughter and sobbing, deeply painful reality and momentary departures from hardship.

“We really are so lucky," my Aunt Gail said during our tearful goodbye, "to love each other so much that it's physically painful to say good bye."

I have never known harder days than these ones but I know what she meant. I've often felt lucky to have loved my mom so much that living without her is so awful. Even as I am fearful lately of loving anyone too much, even as the concept of gratitude isn't always in reach---I know somewhere that we really are lucky.

Still, the post-vacation blues have settled in. I haven't been able to stop crying since we've been back. I know I sound like a spoiled brat---Who mourns a vacation?---but it's the truth. I knew we were coming back to bleak realities and sure enough the sadness has enveloped me. My dad's tumor is back and growing and he has some swelling in his brain. I talked to him yesterday on the phone and he said how strange it is to know he’s dying but to not know how or when it will happen. His illness over the last year---the effects of the tumor, surgery and later the chemo--- brought an intense and often unnavigable tsunami of emotion; particularly due to its occurrence so quickly following my mom's passing. We've all dealt with her death differently---he much differently than any of his daughters---and this, too, has presented much anguish and pain. I've spent weeks in suspended shock due to all that has transpired which is part of why it’s been too difficult to broach here. Still, just as he is understanding now that he is going to die, I am understanding how much I will miss him.

I am trying to thank him for what he has given me; a love of books, an interest in music which spans all genres, limitless curiosity, the solid advice to "choose what is most fun" when faced with a difficult decision. My dad has never been like other dads and I am grateful for this in many ways.

During our phone call we talked about how appreciating the beauty of the snow on the ground---a sight I was grumpy about returning to---is the best way to live a life. Appreciating that damn snow allowed me to kiss my life. My mom had hoped to see one more snow and wasn't able to (though a fresh layer of powder came just a couple of days after she died; an unlikely sight for early November as if she brought it to us). So I know better than to take it for granted. (Though I do reserve the right to boo hoo again should I get cranky. And also, it’s much easier to kiss a life that brings the 60-degree weather that today is.)

I've been thinking about all of this so much lately. How this moment is my life. How who I am now is who I am, period. It doesn't mean there won't be growth and change, it just means that this version of me is not to be cast off as temporary. I look at pictures of my mom at my age---that person was who she was; those moments captured were her life. Sitting here at this table with my laptop is a snapshot of my life, just as a walk later today will be. As will my tears in between.

“I finally figured out that I had a choice: I could suffer a great deal, or not, or for a long time. Or I could have the combo platter: suffer, breathe, pray, play, cry, and try to help people.”---Anne Lamott from Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith

I’m all up in that combo platter. Sorrow, anger, laughter, stillness, anguish, loathing, rage. It’s hard to fight to get back up knowing we will be knocked down again, so rather than fighting anymore I’m trying to wait myself out.

Maybe all things are occurring at just their right time. Maybe our trip to Miami was supposed to be in the weeks after my grandmother died rather than before so we could be there for my aunt rather than see my grandmother one last time. Maybe we needed to douse our cells with sunlight and our souls with energy so that we will have the strength for what’s to come.

Maybe it would have been too hard for my dad to have lived a long life after losing my mom.

Yesterday on my walk Ray Bolger’s version of “Once Upon a Time” came on and I cried right there on the sidewalk---grateful not just for the song’s beauty but more so for my dad who taught me to recognize it.

The fruits of the combo platter...