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Cottontail of Shadow
Oct. 22nd, 2019 09:21 pmThis day has certainly continued the week's theme of much socializing. It was a cold, dark, windy, rainy day. Kind of exciting, really, with the trees lashing about in the wind, and gusts tearing the leaves off the branches to patter into the street along with the raindrops. I got up this morning and went off to therapy. My neighbor was in her driveway. I waved to her, and she rolled down the car window and said "Hi! Why don't YOU drive my kids to school today?" I said I'd be happy to, and I could hear her kids in the back seat wailing, "Nooo! MOMMYYY!" Heh heh. I'm sure they knew she didn't mean it.
When I came home, the Sparrowhawk was still feeling tired, so I talked him into lying down again and taking a real nap. I was planning to putter about upstairs while he was doing that, just to keep him company. But I got a text informing me that the Former Student was at the restaurant, waiting for me--omg, I thought that lunch was tomorrow . . . . Off I went in a tearing hurry, parked, and hustled along the sidewalk with my recalcitrant umbrella flapping like a badly coordinated bat. It was a highly emotional lunch because we did talk about my mother, among other things. He was very attached to her, and she liked him too. They used to have little mini-picnics in the assisted care place, with her hoarded cookies, and mini-cans of ginger ale that she'd smuggle out of the dining room. Sadly, my sibs hate him for this. They've always been angered by the way our parents would collect various outsiders and bring them into the family circle. No holiday was complete without what we used to call the "waifs and strays," who would be welcomed in as if they were family. I always liked this, and considered it one of my parents' more endearing traits. It didn't bother me. I'm not proprietary in my grief, and if someone else wants to mourn my mother too, more power to them. I have to admit, I'm also secretly pleased that the power of my words can make a grown man cry! I am a storyteller, and I enjoy being asked for the stories.
When I came home, the Sparrowhawk was still feeling tired, so I talked him into lying down again and taking a real nap. I was planning to putter about upstairs while he was doing that, just to keep him company. But I got a text informing me that the Former Student was at the restaurant, waiting for me--omg, I thought that lunch was tomorrow . . . . Off I went in a tearing hurry, parked, and hustled along the sidewalk with my recalcitrant umbrella flapping like a badly coordinated bat. It was a highly emotional lunch because we did talk about my mother, among other things. He was very attached to her, and she liked him too. They used to have little mini-picnics in the assisted care place, with her hoarded cookies, and mini-cans of ginger ale that she'd smuggle out of the dining room. Sadly, my sibs hate him for this. They've always been angered by the way our parents would collect various outsiders and bring them into the family circle. No holiday was complete without what we used to call the "waifs and strays," who would be welcomed in as if they were family. I always liked this, and considered it one of my parents' more endearing traits. It didn't bother me. I'm not proprietary in my grief, and if someone else wants to mourn my mother too, more power to them. I have to admit, I'm also secretly pleased that the power of my words can make a grown man cry! I am a storyteller, and I enjoy being asked for the stories.
