I was going to tell you how my shamrock cookies turned out. And about what happend after the Rite of Election all those days ago. And about how one of my friends is moving away in a couple of weeks, and we’re moving in a few months, but I can’t because I’ve been laid out flat.
I’ve been sorting through the house, getting ready for that move because it’ll be here before you know it, and that’s how I got hit upside the head and had to send the kids out to play and started typing in run-on sentences.
I found The Notebook. No, not the novel, but The Notebook I had to start keeping when Rebecca died. I couldn’t remember anything at all and there were just so many details to keep track of, so I had to write it all down. And I kept that notebook with me always, so it became a journal when I had too many thoughts in my head. The worst sorts of memories are in this notebook, funeral details, the wording of the memorial service invitation, notes and questions for the hospital’s attempt to stonewall explain the situation.
It’s a generic, green steno notepad, but when I picked it up I was pretty sure what was inside. I should not have read past the first page. I should have closed it and moved on. Instead, I skimmed through it. It was like breaking my heart all over again.
So here I am again, feeling like I’m going to fly apart into a million pieces and trying not to throw my shoe across the room because I’m really angry and I can’t fix it and nobody can and death sucks and the only reason I’m not going to throw my shoe isn’t out of a maturity I’ve gained through life’s experience, but because it is a wooden Hannah Andersson clog and it would break whatever it hit.
And now I have no good ending for this post, because really, what else is there to say?