Listless and exhausted, I crave the bed where thoughts come and go and I sleep for hours, awakening to a world little changed. Creativity vanished. Painful memories and incessant concerns for future days haunt my now. No more energy for 365 entries. My mind is mush, formless and rotting. Free me from every obligation. Please.
Colleague and caregiver; I’m sandwiched between you and the loved ones you treat. I don’t always agree with you but suspect you are sincere. Time management not your forte, communication lapses, and forgetfullness are typically forgiven by your winning smile and tender interactions with Dad. Your recent ”house call”, much appreciated by a family confused and hurting.
You know more about me than anyone although there are still cracks in the facade that you miss or that I hide. Sometimes ambivalent about continuing, I always (albeit the one year hiatus) come back. Somehow I know that starting over is not the answer. Somehow I know we are on the right path.
114/365: Anna M
Published November 15, 2008 Acquaintances , Caregiver , Family , Musings , Seattle Leave a CommentMistress of the Pearly Jones Home, you supervise, delegate, and follow the rules. Feeling vulnerable around you; I know you have the power to dismiss my loved ones from your care if we “don’t behave”. Creator of parties, like the family Luau. Can’t believe you cut the head off a sucking pig after roasting.
I always enjoyed being in your presence; you made me laugh and you asked great questions that made me think. Runner of marathons, Judge, and father. Haven’t seen you in years, probably never will again. I’m sorry that things turned out badly for your marriage; she fled to the dark side, I feel certain.
I’ve watched you grow from a kindergartner to a young man, mostly in the company of my son. You and he, w inseparable for years now grow apart as time and experience accentuate your differences. I love that you started calling me GRANNY and Denny SLICK. Countless memories; water balloons and flame ignitied rockets.
A kid who lived next door in Aruba; friend of my older brother. I was all of 5, maybe 6 when you wanted to kiss me. Sitting on old cement steps at the back of your house, the wind blowing, your warm face pressed to mine I remember feeling like what you were doing was wrong.
Known as “Wibbon”, you were a childhood girlfriend, a dancer with drive. Older sisters made you grow up fast and money, travel, and parents made you seem rich and exotic, out of my league. We visited once in Belgium on my only trip to Europe; you ordered a “Cola Coca” instead of a Coke.
I know you through the lens of deceit. You seemed nice enough, your voice smooth but icy, your eyes doe like, on the verge of redness. Haven’t seen you in years but know that you signed up for a life you likely never expected by marrying that rat bastard who fucked with my innocence.
Our Irish gardener in Aruba, peddling your ancient bicycle miles and miles to work, they said you were an old drunk and a wonder you didn’t fall off that bike. You burned our lawn with fertilizer once. You always got a good meal at noon working for us. You butchered a pig every Christmas.
