July Blues

This week has been a really tough one, emotionally speaking. On the 4th of July, my grandfather died. My sister and I ventured down to Columbus for the funeral, and while it was good to see my aunts and cousins who had to fly in, there was a lot of tension and bad energy in the air when my ex-stepmother decided to show up to pay her respects. As she cheated on my father when he was dying of cancer, was married again a month and a half after he died, and stole two hundred thousand dollars of inheritance money that was supposed to go to my sister and myself... Well, I was impressed that the arguing and death-glares were kept to a strict minimum.

They buried my grandfather in his WWII uniform, along with a satchel of love letters that he had saved from my grandmother, who had written him constantly during the war. It was a beautiful ceremony, the first half Catholic with purple robes and the embracing stone of a medieval church, stained glass rainbows flickering through the sweltering heat. The rosaries and Communion brought peace to the hearts of my sister, my aunts and uncles, and later, we walked to the graveyard where the air force soldiers waited. They played the taps, folded the flag, and knelt down to the ground, presenting it to my eldest cousin, Dustin. His strong shoulders bowed as he accepted the flag, and he started to cry. That is when my own heart burst open, and these tears began to flow. My sister and I held hands and cried together. "It feels like Dad died all over again," she told me, weeping. And it's true.

My grandfather left me a quilt that used to belong to my father when he was my age, hand-sewn by his grandmother. After my daddy died, my step-mother refused to give us anything that belonged to him. I had to fight tooth and nail, and call a lawyer, in order to get an old guitar that he had wanted me to half. That was it. My sister wasn't even allowed to get that much. All she has are images, blurry pictures that keep his face alive in our souls. I cried when I got the quilt. I buried my face into the fabric, expecting it to smell like him: cigarettes and cologne and safety and warmth. It didn't, but I feel better having it nearby. I was also allowed to take a few other things that had belonged to my grandpa: some of his name tags that had been sewn to his uniforms, some movies that I had watched over and over again with my father, and an amazing rock collection that had belonged to my grandmother. She was the one who made me obsessed with rocks, and I spent countless hours as a child just examining her collection, studying the giant quartz crystals and the shells, watching the colors flash and gleam into the most amazing of rainbows.

Once the funeral was over, it was a relief to come home. Angelboy was wonderful with me, spending all weekend at my mother's house. We spent a lot of time venturing into the jungle of my garden, admiring the growing cucumbers, the sprouting pea-pods, the dozens of melon blossoms. We watched hippie movies and listened to a lot of Janis Joplin and The Doors. We spent a weekend crafting together, our newest obsession being woodburning. I am working on a box for his drawing pencils and paint brushes, decorated with howling wolves and tribal paw prints. He is making a box for my art supplies, a beautiful faeriegirl kneeling on a mushroom, vines and flowers blooming from the corners of the wood.

He is truly so wonderful. I love his creativity, the passion he pours into every project, turning a simple object into such beauty. I love how we can spend hours together, side by side, trading supplies and watching the shadows lengthen and afternoon becomes evening becomes nighttime, and we are lost in the world of our own creation.

We watched movies that I had watched with my father, and he didn't even flinch when I got into a bad headspace and just started crying. I burst into tears and he held me tight, cradling me against him and letting me sob. Death has been occupying a lot of my thoughts this week, filling me with a terror and panic that makes it impossible to breathe. He switched off the movie with the battle scenes, and he popped in Finding Nemo, knowing that silly cartoons and sea turtles and fun fish would help take away the gremlinthoughts.

My heart still feels sore and tender. This week has brought up a lot of emotions that I had buried after losing my father, and it has been hard to enjoy the sunshine and beautiful weather. I feel like I need to hermit up again this week, taking the time to feel all of these feelings, to cry when I need to, to take better care of myself. This weekend, I will emerge again for more adventures with Angelboy, more hours of crafting together and movie watching and an amazing trip to the art museum.

Things are going to get better. I believe it.