Wednesday, December 7, 2022

The Raven (Day 341, Year 2)

I am desperately trying to pull together a Christmas card, but instead I got lost in the memories of this year and in the many, many pictures that included no one looking at the camera, except for a raven in London, who was very compliant and I totally should have smuggled home in my suitcase. 

No one asked me at any of the borders I crossed if I had a bird with me, so I totally could have pulled it off, don't you think? Although the raven only cooperated with Chloe and I don't need my children to have large birds that they can control and then turn against me. 

So, I guess it is best I did not take the raven home, especially because they prophets and are said to connect the spiritual world to this world. I know I am now going off the rails with all of this; but that sometimes how my mind works, one picture triggers a million teeny, tiny thoughts and then here I am, talking about spirits and ghosts. 

Another thing I don't need is more ghosts in this house. 

I am not saying my house is haunted; although I do sometimes like I see someone walking up the stairs or down the hall out of the corner of my eye (and this could be just me expecting to see one of the living people or pets who live here.). It is just that sometimes I feel those thin places between here and there and I don't want to feel them. 

I don't always want to remember those who are gone and I certainly don't want to remember how they are gone. Death is a trauma that I think we only get over when we meet our own end. I am in no rush to get over it; but I hate how sometimes my grief sneaks as a memory of how someone died versus how someone lived. These are two different stories; and even though we'd like to believe we will die how we lived, I think we all know that so much of the end isn't up to us. I don't think my father would have chosen to die when he did and miss out on seeing his granddaughters grow up. I know, while I feel my brother died a hero as an organ donor, hanging on just long enough for that to be possible, he'd much rather be alive and dancing to Lawrence Welk. I know my granddad would have preferred not to die in a hospital. And my Nana would have liked to have memories of her last years of her life. 

It's endless this death thinking when it sneaks up. 

If a raven has this connected between here and there, it must be exhausted. 

And when I get going on this tangent, I don't get sad, exactly. I get irritated and uncomfortable and it is like the more I have memories of how someone died, I forget how they lived. I always want to remember how my Dad lived each day thinking and reading and doing and creating and loving. I want to remember how my brother had to fight so hard for his place in this world; but he still just loved me more than I deserved. I want to remember my grandparents in love and teaming up to yell at me about my questionable posture, while also reminding me that I was smart and could do anything I wanted. 

These are the spirits I want to sneak up on me. Those ghosts can remain dead, as they should be. 



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