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Nov. 9th, 2008 11:56 pmLast night, I went to a bar in a town whose name sounded more like a cheese than a geographic location, one of those really stinky and gooey blues. I got myself extremely drunk on multiple orders of Malibu-and-diet, plugged entirely too many dollars into the jukebox to play Otis Redding and Black Sabbath), stood outside in a light rain and laughed my fool head off until the world spun as drunkenly as I was. It was a good time I was not entirely expecting to have.
This bar was roughly twenty minutes or so from my apartment, where the whole scheme of South Jersey slides into a dimensional gate which delivers to you to the heart of Mississippi. That version of South Jersey is one I am quite familiar with, if not a bit comfortable. I grew up in that sort of environment. For the Engineer, and the majority of the rest of our party, it is much like the surface of the moon: disoriently alien and more than a bit frightening. We saw a man on a ten-speed riding across a highly traveled road heading to the liquor store next to the bar, holding a baby on his right hip. Then we saw him on his return trip, holding a six pack in the same arm with the baby. The baby waved at us our his father shoulder. I waved back.
When we first entered the bar, we were greeted by a blast of Neil Diamond. I must have visibly blanched. As of that night, it was only four days until the four year anniversary of my mother's death and she adored Neil Diamond to the point it embarassed the hell out of me and amused all of my friends incessantly. I can't hear his music without thinking of her face. Sometimes, I'm able to enjoy the moment. A year or so ago, I drove back from Pittsburgh with Joanna, endlessly restarting a greatest hits complimation for five hours, picking apart the meaning of the lyrics to Shiloh. Not a month ago, I attended a friend's wedding and sung along with gleeful and drunken abandon to Sweet Caroline.
Last night at the bar, it was Sweet Caroline once more and my reaction couldn't have been more different. The Engineer turned to me and asked if I knew what day it was. I told him I was well aware of it and that in the next four days, I would grow increasingly aware of the date. He pushed a piece of hair from my face and held my hand.
Tonight, someone on my friend's list posted a link to Chemo Angels and for the briefest spans of time, I contemplated signing up to be a part of it. They match individuals with people going through rounds of chemotherapy. The Chemo Angel is responsible for weekly sending the patient cards, notes, letters, and small gifts to bring them cheer and encouragement. I read through the website, thinking to myself that this was such an amazing idea and that I would be interested in participating. A thought popped into my head that my mother would have loved this sort of thing.
And then, out of nowhere, I started to cry.
These wounds are still far more open than I believed them to be; the edges are raw and bleeding, only I hadn't noticed. I had fooled myself with jokes and bravado into thinking the brunt of the pain had finally dissolved, but it's barely scabbed over, isn't it?
I wish I could find a recording of her voice. I don't remember what it sounds like anymore and that screws a small twist of bleak winter cold into my heart.
This bar was roughly twenty minutes or so from my apartment, where the whole scheme of South Jersey slides into a dimensional gate which delivers to you to the heart of Mississippi. That version of South Jersey is one I am quite familiar with, if not a bit comfortable. I grew up in that sort of environment. For the Engineer, and the majority of the rest of our party, it is much like the surface of the moon: disoriently alien and more than a bit frightening. We saw a man on a ten-speed riding across a highly traveled road heading to the liquor store next to the bar, holding a baby on his right hip. Then we saw him on his return trip, holding a six pack in the same arm with the baby. The baby waved at us our his father shoulder. I waved back.
When we first entered the bar, we were greeted by a blast of Neil Diamond. I must have visibly blanched. As of that night, it was only four days until the four year anniversary of my mother's death and she adored Neil Diamond to the point it embarassed the hell out of me and amused all of my friends incessantly. I can't hear his music without thinking of her face. Sometimes, I'm able to enjoy the moment. A year or so ago, I drove back from Pittsburgh with Joanna, endlessly restarting a greatest hits complimation for five hours, picking apart the meaning of the lyrics to Shiloh. Not a month ago, I attended a friend's wedding and sung along with gleeful and drunken abandon to Sweet Caroline.
Last night at the bar, it was Sweet Caroline once more and my reaction couldn't have been more different. The Engineer turned to me and asked if I knew what day it was. I told him I was well aware of it and that in the next four days, I would grow increasingly aware of the date. He pushed a piece of hair from my face and held my hand.
Tonight, someone on my friend's list posted a link to Chemo Angels and for the briefest spans of time, I contemplated signing up to be a part of it. They match individuals with people going through rounds of chemotherapy. The Chemo Angel is responsible for weekly sending the patient cards, notes, letters, and small gifts to bring them cheer and encouragement. I read through the website, thinking to myself that this was such an amazing idea and that I would be interested in participating. A thought popped into my head that my mother would have loved this sort of thing.
And then, out of nowhere, I started to cry.
These wounds are still far more open than I believed them to be; the edges are raw and bleeding, only I hadn't noticed. I had fooled myself with jokes and bravado into thinking the brunt of the pain had finally dissolved, but it's barely scabbed over, isn't it?
I wish I could find a recording of her voice. I don't remember what it sounds like anymore and that screws a small twist of bleak winter cold into my heart.
