SAD STORIES

 I have always liked to write. Writing my thoughts is the way I comprehend how I feel. I don't write every day although I would like to. I have the idea that sitting at my desk and writing for two hours every morning would turn me into a "real" writer. Unfortunately for me, all I really want to do in the early mornings is drink coffee.

Someone just told me that she likes reading my work because she finds it comfortable and comforting. I like these definitions. I also want it to be relatable and funny and a little bit whimsical. And sometimes it is heartfelt and heartrending. This is one of those times.

I lost a dear friend a few weeks ago. She was a few years older than I am. She was a mentor as well as a friend. I am sorry that I didn't get to know her sooner. I will always miss her.

This week the granddaughter of one of my friends since childhood died in a tragic auto accident. The circumstances were much like the jury case that troubled me so much just a couple of weeks ago. What price can you put on a life? She was only nineteen. Hers was a life that was barely lived and ended before it should have been finished.

Every death, every funeral reminds us of all the others we have been a part of- our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, friends, and colleagues. We know in our hearts that we will lose them at some point in time. But we never think that we will outlive our children. And that should not happen.  As I talked to my friend today she said that a tragedy like this was what happened to other people, but not to her family. I remember when those were my thoughts too, before my son died in his sleep at the age of thirty. Yes, every death is a reminder. My mind flashes back to the night I sat at my first husband's bed and cried all night because I knew he was going to be taken off life support the next morning. So young, 19. So young, 30. So young, 62.

I ache for my young friend. I sent her family strength and prayers because Strength is what we need to get us through these times. It is almost required to send prayers. Do prayers help? I don't know. I don't believe that prayers will change an outcome. I lost that faith when my son and husband were taken from us just a few short months apart. I never got it back. I envy those who still have it, but, for me, it's gone.

I've learned some truths since I realized that death is not what happens to other people. Don't worry about having courage and being brave so that others won't be uncomfortable. Cry as much as necessary. Talk. Remember the good times. Tell your stories. Let someone listen. Say their names. Hold on to one another. Scream in a car in a dark parking lot if it helps you feel better. Drink tea. 

Do whatever you need to do. Jim washed and ironed all of our son's shirts because he said that Rich wouldn't want to know they were wrinkled. I slept with my grown son's baby blanket for six months until my husband hid it away. And then he was dead two months later, so I slept with his shirt and the blanket!

My deepest griefs have been several years ago, but they never go away. Funerals always bring them back just like everything happened yesterday. I have learned to be happy again, but it is never an easy journey.

This may not have been comfortable, and certainly not whimsical, but it was a story I needed to share. Be safe everyone. I send us all Strength.

What I'm reading: I'm still enthralled with ancient Rome. Just trying to get through my library books before they are due.

READING AND WRITING

 I was completely and totally mesmerized by this novel. I started to read it a few nights ago and finished it the next day. (304 pages). It is a book that will stay with me. Basically, it is about a woman in her seventies who has been writing letters to people for most of her life. The book covers the correspondence between 2012 and 2022. There are letters to people she loves and has loved, people she admires, people she is upset with, people she never got along with at all, and people she has never met. She writes to authors to let them know what she thinks of their books. Almost everyone answers her letters. Sometimes a new friendship starts. That's it. The entire book is letters, except for a few emails. I have learned this is called an epistolary. I may have already known that. It is like reading some one's diary, but maybe with permission. Little by little we discover the joys and sorrows and regrets of her life, and our own. There are parts of this book that I really identify with, but most of it is very different than the person I am. I do love the way she organizes her life, and sits at her desk with her favorite pens and paper and beautiful penmanship. She and her dearest friend always close their letters by adding the name of whatever book they are reading.

One of the reasons that I am so taken with this book, is that I recently resolved to start writing letters again. A few weeks ago, I copied a "pledge" to write at least one letter every Sunday. I haven't gotten very far with it yet, but I have hope.

When I was younger, I wrote a lot of letters, and almost always had a penpal. For most of my teen years, I wrote to a girl in India. Her name was Aruna, and we sent each other little gifts. She always wanted me to come visit. And then we both grew up and grew apart. I had another pen friend from the east coast. She was named Faith and seemed to live a life that was much wilder and adventurous than mine. Maybe it was real, but I never knew. She would sneak out of her house at night, and meet up with older boys, and then send me long letters about them. Perhaps she writes steamy novels about them now. I had a lot more in common with Aruna. I had many friends that I kept in touch with through letters for a long time. Now we sometimes email or communicate through Facebook. Not as much as I want to, though. I regret the times I didn't write when I should have.  Now that I have decided to write again, maybe I will be able to do that. I've bought real stationery and may try fountain pens again. And sealing wax. Oh, the possibilities.