Truth:

It is good to have days I couldn't survive without the Word.

"Q"

"You can't spell quarantine without"

me, or so I've heard.

And I can't spell paralysis,

without you to define the word

and define my life and enforce the guilt

with a dagger of rust and my name on the hilt.

Yesterdays live forever, a vividly detailed ghost

and links of chain and iron balls and still that unangellic host,

you who can't and never will and couldn't be convinced

(the world be turned, and turned again another thousand since)

of the truth that I've come to confide:

that captives sometimes take your side.

Forgive me or forgive me not,

no argument's writ in this song.

But leave me alone in the bloody mess

that I was always wrong.

Basic Training

A mother's work is never done.

And if that mother happens to sneeze one night, and if that sneeze happens to throw out her back and render her bedridden, and if you happen to be the twenty-four-year-old voluntary live-in homeschool tutor, cook, and housekeeper. . .you may find that your work is similarly endless (and that your younger siblings have begun referring to you as "the Nazi" behind your back).

Poor Mama. Get well soon (for all our sakes)!

Middle Branches

Maybe I will be a parent someday, maybe not. My sister, though, in anticipation of her first little one (due December 7th) has been a recent catalyst for endless conversations on the subject. Us? Parents? It's a good thing we've had good role models. We scoff at what certain other parents did wrong--in-laws, relatives, that one set of weird neighbors--commending our parents for getting those things right. Obvious things like being home, having dinner with us, and the ultimate decision of perfect parenting: Home Education (which we home-schoolers know is the magic ticket to raising good children).

Yes, my sister and I nod, we know how real parents parent.

But there are those other things, the ones you don't see for as long as your parents are right "because I said so," the small and hidden secrets you suddenly find have been growing inside you because sometimes, just sometimes, they were wrong. And sometimes they taught you to be wrong too, and no one ever told you 'til you went to meet the world, presenting the beautiful portrait of yourself, anticipating only applause.

And they all said it was ugly. You got it wrong. Start over.

I was talking with my brother last night about whether we're a "normal" family. I assured him that our parents had done well, very well, the best they could possibly do, and that try as he may he would never find a family that came even close. To normal, I mean. There is no such thing. Every family tree has its roots in the dirt.

My siblings and I live under the oppression of hereditary diseases: the one we're all dying from and the other ones that my parents acquired within the quarantines of their diseased childhood homes. As small children, they were trapped in close quarters with illnesses from which they can never escape--and neither can I. They are difficult diseases, the kind with names that are hard to pronounce in public. We have seen the doctors, we have heard the prognosis, and for these there is no cure.

What would those doctors say then, I wonder, if they saw my parents today? They would call it a handful of misdiagnoses. They would ask where we have been for help. They would ask whom we have seen. They, and my parents' parents made the same mistake. They thought that incurable diseases cannot be cured.

My parents, however, do not agree, and neither do I. I watch their healing and wait in hope for the cure to my own incurables. My children will still be born with my diseases, but it is not only illness that passes down from generation to generation.

There are a few rotten limbs near the trunk of my family tree, but the ones nearer me are more alive every day. And I can see the tiniest, topmost branches from here where I reach for the sun; they are young and green and flawless.

Dear Doctors,

Where we have been is on our knees,

and whom we have seen is God.

Sincerely,

When is a good time to die?

Yesterday I heard of several tragic deaths in the families of "friends of friends."

One friend told me how young man and woman of our age had moved from their hometown to pursue a new life together. Three weeks later, his mother was killed in a flood in Mexico. Knowing the mother had left her family, including four children, 7 years previously, my friend and I wondered what sorts of closure were already sealed and what sorts of regrets would never find closure.

The conversation moved to my friend's cousin, who had spent most of her life in the wake of her mothers various addictions and alcoholism. After a painful and humiliatingly public falling out on Christmas Eve, the grown daughter finally washed her hands of the destruction and began to live her life. She was away on vacation when her mother killed herself three months later. At least, we thought, she had made peace with the separation already. But maybe not.

Another friend of a friend was killed two days ago when his rock-climbing party was struck by lightning in the Tetons. He had recently decided to propose to his now heartbroken girlfriend. His body could not be recovered until the following day, and she was hundreds of miles away. Zero closure.

Some days it's a friend of a friend. A few times it has been a friend. God decides.

If I die on the way to Memphis today, now is a good time to die.

Happy Anniversary

They still say goodnight, flicking last switches,

the kitchen still warm with italian food.

The coffee is still in the pot.

My toes are still getting cold.

I still sit on the red plaid couch,

still prop my chin on folded towels

to stack in the still silent bathroom upstairs,

where you still don't brush your teeth anymore.

Things to Love On the Rollercoaster Ride - #4 (a.k.a. return of the blogger)

SPONTANEOUS FRONT LAWN CAMPING

It turns out those little green bridesmaid dresses make comfy nightgowns.

You don't know, because you weren't there with mama and me, camping out on the front lawn that night, dragging a quilt from the couch, and cozying up to the one other Whitehead woman left-- well, not so much "standing," as collapsed from the weight that collects in one's feet following a month of preparation for the wedding that had just concluded as we blew out the last candle and carried in the last table cloth. The ghosts of elegant white tables still haunted the front lawn, but otherwise we were alone at last.

Every morning of those three and a half weeks we rose early to get the household gears turning, breakfast made, children to their tasks, and we stopped--coffee in hand--for a breather and a desperate prayer on the front step.

"Mama."

"Kate."

""We are going to survive this day.""

And if not, there was always Plan B.

The sun would already be hot, bathing our legs as we wriggled our toes in the damp grass and perched on the cool cement steps, gazing into the distant, surrounding hills--wallpaper for a summer wedding. We had three weeks, two, seven days, a few, a couple...

So Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Mikrut ran down the driveway to escape their bubble-blowing fans.

The crowd of guests reduced to stragglers,

reduced to our generous helping neighbors,

reduced to us on the steps again,

a concentration of one month's concentration.

A tired father-of-the-bride had kissed his own bride goodnight and ushered the relatives off to bed with the kiddos.

And we sat listening to the celebratory sounds settle into silence and starshine. God does answer prayer. We basked in the glow of our miracle. We were wriggling our toes in the floor of Jessie's reception hall, and it had been. . .yes. . .and it was over.