A better place to dwell

It's a chilly October evening (finally!), and the Resident Fan Boy is pulling a supper together, while we watch a performance of all six Brandenburg Concerti.  

The music is like a warm, firm but gentle massage.  Furthermore, it's a Doctor Who special night complete with several regenerations, and our cat, who is fourteen pounds and roughly the size of a lithe and lethal mini-puma, kneads and nestles into the crook of my arm.  By the end of the evening, I am so relaxed that my FitBit thinks I've been asleep for an hour and twenty minutes, even though the show was pretty exciting, and I stayed awake through all of it.

Then I remember what day it is.

Today is the fifth anniversary of our last day in Hades.  On an unseasonably warm afternoon, brilliant with fall colours, I took younger daughter on a last visit to the National Gallery and that evening, walked through the dark streets of Centretown with elder daughter and the Accent Snob, who would be staying behind.  Elder daughter had taken an apartment a few blocks from her workplace, and the Accent Snob was far too elderly to survive the trauma of a plane trip. The only pull on my heartstrings were for the separation from my elder daughter (whom I would see again for Christmas) and my dog (whom I never saw again), plus the trauma my anxious and autistic younger daughter experienced, being taken away from the only home she remembered.

Tonight, I pull myself back from the memories of that day.  Not because of the grief, but because of my shame at my lack of grief.

Some things are not improved by dwelling on them.

I have found a better place to dwell.

Another amber moment

On my Twitterfeed this morning

I awoke early this morning; the Resident Fan Boy was celebrating his birthday by going into the hospital for minor surgery. 

In between pulling on my clothes and brushing my teeth, I quickly checked my social media feeds and was arrested by a tweet from Elizabeth Renzetti, a former Globe and Mail columnist whom I follow on Twitter.

Apparently the newsreaders at BBC News had quietly changed into black suits.

Things still needed to get done:  seeing the RFB off in the taxi, then crossing the street to go set up Demeter's breakfast.  I continued to check whatever media was available.  The commentary was vague, but pretty ominous.

I was washing up Demeter's breakfast plates, when elder daughter texted me from London at 10:36 our time.

She simply sent the words of the message that was fastened to the gates at Buckingham Palace:  The King and Queen Consort will return to London tomorrow.  "So odd."

"We'll get used to it soon," I assured her.

I didn't ask her if she could see the rainbow from South Wimbledon.

Resistance always has meaning

It's been a strange, blocked sort of week, with sad edgings of loss.

Among other things, one of the Resident Fan Boy's aunts-by-marriage is slipping away.  We received emails and texts over the weekend from her daughter, asking us to send her a "funny card".  Aunt-by-Marriage used to send us sort of care packages at Christmas, filled with bolts of fabric, ties her husband didn't want, and clipped New Yorker cartoons, so I dropped by the local bookstore and picked out two New Yorker cartoon greeting cards and let the RFB choose. He filled it with an innocuous note of recent family doings, not wishing to scribble "Hello, auntie, we hear you're at death's door…."

Remembering how long it's likely to take a card to reach San Diego, I took it to the post office yesterday to see how quickly they could send it and for how much.  The young man shook his head sympathetically.  For fifty bucks, it could be there in a day; for twenty-five, three days.  I opted for the latter, because despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't countenance fifty dollars to send a greeting card. It isn't that funny.

It was only when I got home that I remembered that the Resident Fan Boy's dearly departed uncle would have had his birthday today and Aunt-by-Marriage could very well time her departure to coincide with this (it wouldn't be the first time, for either side of the family), so maybe I should have splurged.

The reason I remembered DDU's birthday is because we have a pile-up of birthdays on February 4th: one of my nephews, a distant cousin, and Demeter.  For the past week, I've been trying to knuckle down and write a letter of acceptable length to enclose in her card.  I know she would prefer that above any other gift.  Somehow, I'm blocked.

There's a book on writing I've always loved entitled Writing on Both Sides of the Brain by Henriette Klauser. One of her banners is "Resistance Always Has Meaning".  As I sat in the study this evening, chatting with Demeter by Skype (which may be why I lack subject matter for letters right there), and listening to younger daughter moan and groan her way through a homework assignment while the Accent Snob cowered behind my knees, I found myself wondering rather bleakly:  "Meaning for whom?"

Poor Demeter.  February is not the greatest month for a birthday.  I wish I could have been in Victoria, taking her out to dinner, giving her a card, not having to write a letter….

Meanwhile, midnight is approaching and there's no word from San Diego.  Maybe Aunt-by-Marriage will stay long enough to get her card.  And decide that it definitely wasn't worth it.

Toodle-loo, Toulouse

I dress early and finish my packing so I can slip down by myself to the coffee house near Demeter's condo and drink in the beautiful sea-cooled morning one last time, along with my caffe mocha.

The barista with whom I began this year's stay in Victoria is there this morning, cooing over a visiting dog on the patio. A few minutes later, as I wait for my order, she's bubbling excitedly to the young man who is creating a beautiful pattern on my caffe mocha in chocolate syrup: "I get to take care of two little weiner dogs! It's my very first dog-sitting job!" Then she excitedly outlines her dream of getting a cat: "I'll call him Toulouse just so I can call 'Tou-looooose!"

Her companion frowns slightly but continues his deft strokes across the foamed milk. "Uh, I'm not sure I get that," he says. "Try spelling it?"

I grin at him. "Toulouse-Lautrec," I explain. "The really short French artist from the nineteenth century."

The bubbling barista gapes at me in delighted astonishment. "Are you kidding? I was thinking about Toulouse in The Aristocats; y'know, the kitten who paints with his paws?"

"That's right," I nod. "He's named after Toulouse-Lautrec."
"Wow! Can you spell that?"
"T-O-U-L-O-U-S-E."
"Wow! I never knew that!"

I sit outside, reading the local paper and watching people stroll up and down Cook Street. Some are walking dogs; others are clearly on their way to work. I silently envy them for living here, as I used to do. (Live here, I mean.) I can't stay long. The Resident Fan Boy is helping younger daughter pack and Demeter is fixing breakfast before we leave her to head to the airport. Reluctantly, I rise and take my mug back.

Bubbling Barista beams at me.
"Thanks for telling me about the artist!"
I wave genially. "Toulouse-Lautrec," I remind her. "Look up his work. He was good."

I walk out into the morning sunshine. I only look back once.