Oh Blah Dee

And anyone as old as me knows the next two lines. By Golly, it's true. Life does go on. And on and on and on. Whether we want it to or not.

Yesterday, I was describing to a therapist that feeling of who cares anyway. And I knew she knew what I was talking about, even though she has a sweet life with a loving partner and dogs, that she KNEW what it meant to lie in bed and lack motivation to even roll a leg over the edge and point it toward the floor. To sit in a chair and stare at nothing as the light changes from morning to afternoon to evening. To wear the same clothes, day after day instead of making the effort of choosing something to wear.

I was especially pathetic in that regard on the day, a week ago, of my friend's memorial gathering. I needed to leave my house, looking at least half-way nice and pulled together, to shake people's hands and listen to whatever they had to say about my poor, dead friend. So I did. It took at least four changes of clothes before I got it to the point that I could edge past that last mirror and open the front door, get in the car. . . It's done.

And really, disorganized and silly and chaotic as it was (scheduled for 3 p.m., son and wife with photos and food didn't show up until 3:30, son so unready to let go he went to park the car he had just unloaded and didn't return for half an hour, but then spoke very movingly about his mother's bravery and commitment to social justice) it helped. Now I can have her near every day without all the weight of her sojurn, unresolved. We did her honor in a way that mirrored her life. The best thing was her bright-eyed grandchild and the Sancerre brought by her last, truest boyfriend. From her effects, I have kept a pair of Fatima's hand earrings. They are in a tiny bowl on my dresser, beaming protection. Maybe someday they will help me be stalwart.