Snow on top of everything
Icicles are growing in front of our doorway. The temperature dropped with the sun (and I speak of the sun in terms of faith, so many dark gray clouds, so much snow). Ice forms where ever water stood minutes ago.
Teenagers throw snowballs at cars. I can hear children shrieking with joy.
I’m sitting by the window watching all of it. Beautiful. White, in a blueish sort of way.
I am finished buying gifts and there are only three gifts left to wrap. I’m doing laundry, washing things to pack for our road trip (we leave late tomorrow night).
Things I must do:
Pack our clothes and assorted sundries.
Write a grocery list.
Clean our bathroom.
Clean our bedroom.
Change our sheets.
Make the guestroom look welcoming (by taking the “just throw it in the guestroom” things).
Sign our new mortgage (tomorrow).
Load our little Class B Motorhome (a Pleasure-Way have you seen them?).
Don’t forget the laptop, the camera and the iPod.
(Without the iPod, you’ll die.)
Deposit checks at the bank (but if you don’t get this done, it’s okay).
Assorted things:
The Nigerian scammer didn’t sent me his photograph so I guess our negotiations are over. Darn.
My mother told me that dad doesn’t remember how to make a sandwich. “He just stares at the bread,” she said. She doesn’t know what to do. I can’t think of many ways to help her, so I call – let her talk.
It’s my aim to make our bedroom beautiful, because shouldn’t it be? It rarely is. It becomes a depository for assorted things. Our house is small and we don’t have enough storage (if you don’t count the garage).
Tonight in order to make our bedroom beautiful while doing the laundry, packing our clothes, cleaning the bathroom, fixing up the guestroom, and writing a grocery list, I think I’ll make use of the garage and worry about doing it “right” when we return from our trip.
We are driving (ROAD TRIP!) to my hometown of Chula Vista. We’ll be with my family this year, first time in ten. Maybe the last, but I can’t know that for sure. “He’s not doing well,” my mother warns me. “But I’ll probably die before him,” she says. She tells me that her lungs are worse. “40% capacity,” she explains.
I realized two days ago that ruts, especially emotional ones annoy those who you love. Emotional rut-rolling must be kept private and so I’ll do my best to make it so. “Forgive yourself,” my daughter said. She explained she and my son get tired of hearing about the worst time of my life. I realize they will never understand how it was for me and more importantly I realize they shouldn’t have to. They have their own lives. They move on. They focus on their future and can’t care about my past. I wish it wasn’t like that. I long for resolution or absolution or understanding. Grace.
My children can’t give it. I’m barking up the wrong tree, running the wrong race, telling the wrong story and none of it will work. They are who they are and I can’t blink my eyes and wish for something else.
Well…
Off to do the laundry, fold some clothes, put some dishes away, clean the guestroom, scrub the toilet and make my bed. ROAD TRIP!
