A Weird Place by Liz Flaherty

I'm late again. I doubt most people are aware of it--it's only 6:39 AM on Saturday morning. I've watched the morning sky, fed the cats, and gotten the coffeepot in the house ready for when Duane gets up. I haven't written the blog yet, although I like to have it done on Friday. I want for it to be there, ready, like the purple and pink sky and my Keurig, when I come to the office on Saturday. That hasn't worked this week.

I'm in a weird kind of place, one I imagine most people my age can identify with. I'm a septuagenarian, thank you very much. I've earned a long word for being as old as I am. I'm happy and grateful for my life. I laugh a lot and I love my family with a depth that there aren't any words long enough to describe. I am blessed in so many ways. 

And yet.

It's not much of a secret, since I talk about it all the time, that I'm a dweller. I don't get over things. It's one of those things you hope will go away with that age I was talking about, but for me it has sharpened. Instead of fading into a gentle Monet landscape, loss and grief and anger stand out like mountains on relief maps. It's only now, in these brittle days since my sister passed away, that I realize I can be grateful and happy and realize my blessings and still dwell on hurt and loss. Still wake every day with the thought that I won't see her again. 

Nancy, my sister, was big on get over it. It was how she got through things, how she survived, how she held onto happy and grateful. She was the eldest of us, however, and she was unprepared for two of our brothers to pass before her. How dared they to go out of order? We laughed when we said that, but she didn't "get over it." She mourned with a depth I didn't fully understand, even though they were my brothers, too. 

She worried about my brother and me who are still here, because she already felt betrayed by the out-of-order thing. Despite the depth of her own grief, I don't think she'd understand that I'm having trouble accepting that she's not sitting at her kitchen table anymore. She'd roll her eyes and remind me that I have everything. 

I do. And I'm grateful, happy, and blessed. But I don't have her. As wonderful as septuagenarianism is--and it truly is--it is pockmarked with those things I talked about. Loss and grief and anger all leave marks, don't they? They add substance to our lives, to who we are, but they hurt. Forever. 

I don't know how to end this, because I am indeed still in this weird place. But maybe writing about it (and making you suffer along with me) has helped. It's reminded me of the pink and purple morning sky, that I had the best sister in the world for over 70 years, and to keep laughing because joy keeps those scars of grief and loss and anger from running together and taking you over. 

I miss you every day, Nance. Love you.

That's it for now. Have a good week. Tell people you love them. Be nice to somebody.