July 5, 2023
This is always a very
difficult day for me. On this day, way back in 1919, my mother was born. And on
this same day, one year and three months after her passing, I gave birth to my
second child, my son, Anthony.
He’s been gone for nearly 17
years now. I can tell you that the sharpness of the pain is less than it was;
but there’s still pain. Most of the time, I am able to think fondly about him.
I recall something funny, or cute, or sweet—or, because I am talking about
Anthony—something embarrassingly narcissistic or just downright deluded.
I have never been one of those
parents who would ever take the stance, “why, my child would never do that.” I
was more likely to say, “yeah, that sounds like something the little bugger
would try to do.” My children were none of them perfect, but they were mine and
they knew every day growing up that I loved them, warts and all. They were—they
are—a part of me, and sometimes I will tell you, the best part.
So yes, the good memories come
more often than the bad ones; and I smile or laugh more than I cry. That said,
and because I have always been completely transparent in these essays, there
are still days, here and there—not a lot but some—when I shatter.
The emotional storm never
lasts long, but while it rages, I am leveled. And I can tell you that I firmly
believe, contrary to that ubiquitous saying, that time does not heal all
wounds. But it does take the worst of the sting away. And sometimes in life, for
some things, having the worst of the sting dulled, however subtly, really is
the best we can hope for.
I’ve never been one to post
birthday messages online to my lost loved ones. But I know now that I can,
because I did exactly that on Saturday, which was the anniversary of my brother’s
birth. He would have been 79; we lost him in 2020, which isn’t all that long
ago.
I don’t regret doing that,
because I was emotional, and my emotions are ok. A weepy day was Saturday,
because I miss my brother; he and I were the last ones standing from our birth
family.
I have found over the last
three years that it’s very hard to be the last one remaining from your birth
family.
I was once told by a medical
professional that I should be “all over” grieving for those no longer here,
because time passes, and life goes on. I do believe the person who said that to
me had never lost anyone close to him.
I say that I will likely
grieve, here and there, now and then, for the rest of my life. One never gets
over losing a loved one. And there is nothing wrong with that. Grief really is
a byproduct of love.
Moving on, I would like to
report a jungle. Yes, a jungle, and it is growing in my lower back yard. In the
table gardens, to be more precise. I’m not complaining, necessarily—and likely
won’t unless those very tall tomato plants begin to steal all the sun from the
less tall Swiss chard and green beans, causing them to whither and die. I have
a further garden report to make. Apparently, we were mistaken in claiming that
all of the green beans planted in the garden are “bush” plants. Some are not.
Some are vines and are trying to initiate an improper relationship with the
tomatoes. Some are dangling down off the table, reaching for the ground and
will no doubt eventually draw the attention of the small dogs who otherwise pay
little attention to those table gardens at the moment.
They don’t necessarily even know
they are gardens. The dogs believe (I am certain) that they are elaborate
umbrellas set up for them so that they have a place to go under when it’s
raining.
I am pleased to report that
there are a lot of little yellow flowers on those tomato plants, and that is
great news. Everything is very green and very lush in our gardens, and David is
pleased.
It is the summer, hot and
humid, with, so far, enough rain to help all this garden growth. He is already
anticipating those toasted tomato sandwiches—and the crop of beans that will
soon be on his dinnerplate.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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