A piece of life's recent puzzles

For Shawn & his Desirée

She danced into heaven
on a Sunday
only seventeen
She was your best friend,
your love.
"My future," you said
and my heart nearly broke.
Odd how we always look
for a reason
a purpose
I wish I could give you one.
Years ago, when I lost a love,
I searched in vain for the whys
and ended up none the wiser,
unless you count
a depressed resignment
to random, horrible coincidences
as wisdom.
The last photos taken of her
were in church that morning.
She looked uncomfortable there.
I understood.

WWC

I'm a day late, but it's ok. This has been a freakin' crazy week. You would probably be surprised if I told you how much a constipated, teething (and then over-tired) 3-month old baby could make you feel as though you'd been turned inside out.

Anyhoop (-->for Tink), the WWC is hosted by Tink from Pickled Beef - and do check out her blog if you haven't, because it = hilarious. The words for this week were Blue and Old, and there was a bonus word: Hallowe'en. I dug into the archives for this week, because as soon as I saw the words I thought immediately of one person: my farmor (--> Danish for father's mother). This is an incredibly emotional entry for me - my farmor has Alzheimer's and doesn't remember who most of us are any more. My dad's parents were always the grandparents we were closest to, and it wasn't just because they were the ones who lived in the same city as we did. They had an amazing relationship. My farfar (you guessed it, "father's father") would often tell people about how he had met my farmor - it was in a dance class in Copenhagen. He saw her across the room and thought she had the nicest legs of anyone there...and at this point in the story he would playfully lift up a corner of her skirt and say "And she still does!" and my farmor would shoo him away in embarrassment (and with laughter) each time. It was always great fun to visit their house. My farfar was an avid gardener, and I remember helping him pick cherries from their trees in the backyard, and getting pushed around in the wheelbarrow when I was young. My farmor would always cross-stitch things, especially for Christmas (everyone in our family has a name tag for Christmas dinner, and most of them were done by her), and the two of them would always cook together. Farmor is renowned for her gravy among many other yummy things, and farfar's specialties were rye bread and crepes. My farfar passed away 10 years ago this past February, and I can't believe it's been that long - I still can't talk about him without crying. After he died it became apparent that he had been covering for my farmor's increasing memory loss. Small things at the time - some disorientation in the kitchen and confusion with recipes long memorized, for example. She lived with my aunt and uncle for a little bit, but that was a understandably a difficult situation, and as it became too much for them she moved to a graduated retirement/nursing home. At this point, I am lucky if she recognizes my face at all - and it's not that she knows who I am, but she's aware that she knows me - and that's on a good day. So here are my words, taken one year apart from each other, when she could still make it out to our yearly summer get-togethers:

Old

...is beautiful, and fun.

Blue

...is when you recognize faces but aren't sure who they all are. And you know that you should know who they all are, because you remember enough to know that they are your family.

Finally, on a lighter note, the bonus word: Hallowe'en. I bring you our little Pengin, who was a bunny for his very first Hallowe'en, in a "photo short story" of the 5 minutes that comprised his limit for costume fun:

One - demure:

Two & Three - having some fun, enjoying his own cuteness:

Four - giving a speech on how cute he has come to realize he is:

Five - "I think I rather like this costume thing!":

Six - "I HATE IT! GET ME OUT OF HERE!":

Footnote: I can't tell you how little time passed between photos 5 and 6. Heh. He's a funny, feisty little man, is our Pengin. :)

Crazy News Tuesday #3

This is a cool one. My only question was, couldn't they let the poor kid keep it for just a little?! Geez...

Going out on a small, sharp little twig

Because you couldn't even call it a limb. Seriously. Sharp twig. Little.

The prelude: there's a guy named Jay. A.k.a Cynical Bastard. One of the many things I love about Jay is that he is who he is, he likes what he likes, and you can take it or leave it. He's also funny as hell. Sir Jay has been posting vlogs every Friday in his awesome southern accent and because I think he's so cool I thought I'd copy him. So this is my first vlog. I was exhausted when I recorded it, and I just watched it again and I hate it. But, I'm posting it anyway because...well, why not? Besides, I don't have anything else prepared for today. :)

Go gently...