Story of my life . . .
It’s Stuffing Week.
First time in many years I will be spending it with my family.
Sissie. It was the one holiday she didn’t have to make dinners for people. She loved it. I worried — when younger, about her being alone that day. Finally, when I got older she felt she could tell me how much she treasured the day alone. A holiday alone. She had so few days alone. She would make fruitcakes and watch the Macy’s Parade. It was as close to Broadway as my aunt and I could get together, most years, and certainly, there, at the end. After she’d gone mostly blind, and even, begun to lose who she was — and thus, I began to lose who I was, still, I would go, every Thanksgiving morning, until the end, and watch with her.
First time in years I will be spending this day with my family.
Not Sissie. Ten years now. Feels like yesterday.
First time in years.
And I have some anger. I have some heartache about never hearing the words “I’m sorry.” I have some heartache about all the times I apologized for things other people did.
But, it’s stuffing week.
I will be — I am enjoying all the good and the happy and the yes and allowing myself to say that, yes, I have some heartache. It’s part of who I am. And, okay.
I have been much loved. Not that way. Though.
And I am feeling particularly bereft and somehow absent, somehow, I wish I had words, but, just, I am lonely for something I never really had — and came so close to — the few, those few, who I loved, who loved me but — not that way. Though … that way … just, not, and the because of the not — well … no, not tonight …
Sometimes the echoes almost overwhelm. Some valley. Some mountain. Some landscape you think you know. Think you’ve travelled. And though every step you take, have taken, every path, all known –still, you are lost.
I’m not sorry.