Thursday, April 30, 2009

It did not snow today

Tomorrow is May 1 and we have finally had one day in a row without snow. It's been a long-ish winter.

I'm not sure how to break an almost month long silence. I'm not very sunshiny these days, and am having trouble summoning enough energy even to make fun of things. Makes for boring reading.

However, I'm pleased to report that A got herself stuck in the dryer while doing homework the other night. Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Monday, April 06, 2009

Because we agree it needs to be said.

(Lynette, this one is for you.)

Memory is a funny thing - subtracting from one person's mind what is absolute fact in another's. We remember food served at a wedding we didn't attend. I remember saying something incredibly rude to my brother the day I called him to tell him my father had died - and he doesn't remember it. He remembers only the news.

This is how I remember the day before I went home from boarding school for Christmas break, December 1977.

There are four or five girls in a dormitory room, draped over beds, lying on floors, laughing and joking. The phone rings down the hall.

"SUEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" someone shrieks and I thunder down the hall.

"Hello?"

There is laboured breathing on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Sue?" It's my mother's voice, but there is something horribly wrong with it. Fuzzy, thick, like it's coming from a different dimension.

"Mom? Are you okay?" My own voice is sharp with worry.

She starts to cry. "I - I called to say goodbye."

She'd taken every pill she could find, and just before she laid down to die, she called me, in my dorm a hundred miles away, to tell me not to give up on God.

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, listen to the laughter coming from the room I'd just been in. There is no way I can walk back into that room. I leave the dorm, end up in the gym, stunned, throwing basketballs at a hoop, crying, and calling my mother a stupid stupid lady.

Lynette, do you remember? I hadn't, until your letter - "How is your mother? I remember her clearly." And after all these years, you came back into the story.

You come down the stairs from the gym balcony and wrap your arms around me and ask me what is wrong. You insist that I call someone, that I keep calling until I find someone who will go home and help her, you convince me it doesn't matter if my mother will "kill me for telling."

You save her life.

And last week, 30 or so years later, Mom and I agreed it's past time for this:

Thank you for being the hands of God that day.