'Twas Right Before Christmas...

And all through the house I had been decorating.

And one of my better finds for the season had been my lovely plastic doorcover of the Holy Family which came complete with lights and music.  At least, initially I thought it was a better find.  What could be nicer than the Holy Family, some lights and Silent Night?

Okay, it's true that as Jimmy was attempting to attach it to the door with assorted screws, as we didn't find the included hanger hook until the next day, by which time it had become redundant, and after repeated trips to Ida's house for thumbtacks so the Holy Family would not droop and sag and generally flap around, there was some language used that one would hope the Holy Family would never hear one speak.

For instance, the repeated utterings of "Jesus Christ" might have been affirmations of the purpose of the season, and asking God to damn a lot of things such as Christmas in general and door covers in particular may not have been exactly appropriate to the mood I was attempting to create, but still.  Eventually the thing was up and ready to welcome visitors with a spirited Merry Christmas.

And boy howdy, did it ever.  I had never realized how many times in a day people came through or went out that door.  Every ten  minutes choirs of angels were singing Silent Night in an increasingly shrill and desperate way, because as near as I can tell, no one ever recorded choirs of angels on a dandy little computer chip ever before.

Had they done so, I would not be listening to it today, as people would have discovered that constantly shrill renditions of Silent Night incline one to murder people and someone would have made a law forbidding the recording of choirs of angels.

I know that real choirs of angels cannot sound like that, because if they did all the shepherds and herds of sheep and any kings hanging around would have run as quickly as possible to Egypt and never have been seen or heard from again, and it would have put a real dent in Christmases yet to come.

And may I point out that we Christians are not all that popular today, anyway, and if we want to avoid being vaporized by some terrorist, perhaps it would be a good idea to just not record Silent Night on a computer chip, drive scores of people mad and somehow manage to associate that with the Holy Family.

I would take the thing down, but I am committed.  That and I paid eight dollars for it and since it's the Holy Family I can't use it to line the cat box or anything, and so I plan to use it until it wears out.  No matter who it drives insane.

If only I could send one to the nice Sheriff's Department, with a special note attached designating it for the Sgt....but, no.  Seperation of church and state, you know.  And I don't know his home address, more's the pity.  Because it is Christmas after all, and one should always try to set aside one's differences for Christmas and what could be nicer, really, than a Holy Family door cover and maybe a Poinsettia?  But I digress.

So then there was the tree.  By the time Chritmas is over, I usually don't care if it never comes again--not the Birth of Christ part, you know, the rest of it--and so I have a tendency to tear down the tree any old way, toss the ornaments in a box, heave the lights into the closet and attempt to erase all memory of it until next year.

Except by next year I've usually managed to forget why I hate it all so much and so I'm all dewy eyed and sentimental and ready to decorate with a vengeance, and that's when I discover that someone took down Christmas the year before with a great lack of regard for the guy who would decorate the tree next year.

This year Lacey and I spent a good two hours unraveling strings of lights only to discover none of them would light.  This year I'm sticking a note in the box that just says, "dispose of this and go to Wal-mart for three new strings of lights."  I won't listen, of course, but at least I will know I tried.

So, anyway, upon setting up the tree we noticed that only two legs of the built in stand were in evidence. Although Lacey gamely buried herself up to the neck in the closet at the head of the stairs, and at one point discovered some mice in her pant leg and made an exit that could have set a new land speed record, we never did find the leg to the tree stand.

Ever resourceful (and unwilling to drive to town for a new tree) we just screwed the remaining two legs to the floor of the sun porch.  Emma helped.  That was fun, but required that we censor our language which made for a very interesting conversation as we thought of many, many new words to replace the word f***, which would have been very much in evidence had it not been a totally PG event.

Could we have gotten an R rating I assure you Christmas would have been very colorful this year. The only strings of lights which never fail are those that have a computer chip that plays Christmas music at the top of it's lungs, not only giving one a headache but competing now and then with Silent Night as played by the front door.

And which you can never find the box for, which is shaped like santa's head and if you press his left eyebrow repeatedly will shut up the lights.  Until some little kid trips over the cord once again, thus resetting Santa and causing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen to resume at top volume.

As if this were not enough, I also have a beautiful set of Carousel lights which were Aunt Margaret's and which I treasure, even though Emma invariably turns them on, turns them up, removes all her clothes and begins to dance to Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.  Which as you have no doubt guessed, is competing wildly with both Santa's God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Silent Night as played by the Holy Family Door Cover.

If I am very lucky, about this time the Target Commercial comes on the television so we can add the Carol of the Bells with stupid advertising lyrics to the general mix.

So, anyway, we're having a blizzard and there's nothing to do now but brew up a nice pot of tea, find a good book and start praying that no one wants to use the front door for anything, no one plugs in the tree and no one turns on the television. 

Perfect quiet, what bliss.

A Few Minor Details

I was feeling a little depressed earlier and when I get like that I like to read over that whole criminal complaint thing, on account of it reminds me of a few things I want to be sure and include in my suicide note, and so even though I was going to save this until the matter had been officially settled, there are one or two things I would like to make sure the District Attorney is aware of before we actually get to court.

At no point, for instance, have I ever been married to my brother.  Although the official charges do state that at one point I am apparently married to my brother, Jim.  I would like to point out that I don't have a brother Jim.  In fact, unless my father has new information he would like to share with mother and I, I'm fairly sure I have no brothers at all.

And if I did have a brother, I would like to state for the historical record that I would not, at any time, marry him.  I was willing to go to Tennessee to marry my cousin, and while I completely understand that not everyone understands our choice to marry, the fact remains that unless father got up to some didoes with my Aunt and then failed to mention it, my husband is not my brother.

If the District Attorney (on the advice of the deputy) has any remaining doubts about the matter, I will be quite happy to submit to DNA analysis, but I think he should have to pay for it, I can't even afford an attorney, and anyway I am not the one who seems to have some confusion as to the exact relationship I bear to my husband.

Then there is the matter of my taking the rifle to my brother, Jim.  Once again, let me state that I do not have a brother Jim,  Nor do I have a brother Dave, although he also appears in the story.  I don't have a brother at all, and furthermore, I wouldn't marry that brother either, if indeed I had a brother.  And I don't.  Unless, of course, father got up to some didoes with his brother's wife a couple of times and, once again, failed to mention it.

Also, while I would like to agree that the accusing authority figures are "truthful and reliable"  I feel compelled to point out that they have me married to my brother Jim and delivering a gun to my brother Jim, and since I have no brothers and certainly would not marry one if I had, exactly how truthful and reliable can we reasonably believe them to be?

I am willing to allow that an otherwise truthful and reliable person could make a mistake, but frankly, if I'm not allowed to make a mistake, I think it is only fair that somebody charge the person who wrote up the report and made the accusations and delivered the complaint because marrying someone to their nonexistant brother is, I think we can agree, a mistake of epic proportions and with grave and far reaching potential consequences.

I think it's illegal to marry one's brother, I think whoever wrote the report might have noticed that it was unlikely I was married to my brother, and if they could miss a mistake that ridiculous how reliable can one reasonably expect the rest of the report to be?

And then there is the small (but important) matter of which of my sons was actually involved in the incident.  The complaint mentions two of them by name, sometimes in the same sentence.  I would like to point out that they cannot both be married to Amanda.

In fact, Jason's wife may take exception to being told her husband was married to his sister-in-law on October 5, apparently at the same time as he was married to her and fathering the baby she's having any minute now.

Of course, if I can be married to my brother, I'm sure that there is no reason a couple of my sons can't have two or three wives at the same time.  In fact, maybe they trade off every second Tuesday, just to keep life interesting.

Here again, we run into that whole truthful and reliable issue. 

I'm going to spare you the entire account of the interview with my daughter-in-law, except to just say that there are a few things that violate the laws of physics.  I realize that no one can force a person to adhere to the laws of physics, but defying them tends to result in things that can only have occured via an act of God, and unless the Pope has been here and authenticated a couple of miracles no one told me about, there's a big question of truthful and reliable there, as well.

I already told the judge I lied to the officer, I'm pretty sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind about that.  The only thing still undetermined is why I lied and since no one has asked me, why should I tell anyone?  If anyone ever does think to ask me, I will be quite happy to tell them exactly how and why I came to tell a lie to a police officer.

I have long since passed beyond the point where I care at all what happens to me next.  I have a good contingency plan should things go badly awry in the courtroom.  I feel confident that I have allowed for all the possibilities.  I have, as they say, set my affairs in order.

I would like to remind you of what happens when we put bullies in positions of authority and allow them to set an example for our children.  Some people made just that mistake in 1939 and before they were able to rectify their mistake, roughly eleven million people had been murdered by the people most of them had believed were there to protect and serve them.

A bully can yell long enough and loud enough to make you say anything to shut him up and get him off your porch, but I don't know as I would sign my name to anything that described his ensuing report as truthful or reliable.

Refuse to be silenced, never go quietly and always be willing to suffer for what you believe to be right.

Fortune Cookie

There's an old superstition that says if you open your fortune cookie and the paper is blank, it means you're going to die.

And that would be entirely true.  You are going to die, or failing that, you're going to be the first person in the history of the world to live forever, and how likely is that?  I mean, seriously.

I don't know why I was thinking about fortune cookies, it just occured to me because, after all, I did get a blank fortune once.  It was about twenty years ago, but I do remember that the children were all quite impressed and watched me with great interest for weeks.

Apparently because they expected my death to be somewhat spectacular, and they didn't want to miss it.  They got on the school bus saying things like, "Promise you won't die before I get home!"  Not tearfully, like they might miss me if I was gone.  More like with intent interest, like I was a science project and I might go bad while they were away.

After weeks had passed and I hadn't died they got kind of tired of the whole thing and moved on to more reliable interests.  You know, they went back to making the goats faint and trying to string the baby up as a horse thief while playing Old West.

So, either my blank fortune meant I was going to die but it hasn't happened yet, or God was trying to give me a hint that I was going to have the most boring future imaginable and did I really want to go on.  Or God had already met the Sergeant and knew he was in my future and it was only a matter of time before I obstructed justice and went to prison, so why bother writing it down for the fortune cookie?

I did go to court and it turns out the judge is the nicest man you ever met.  He does not yell at all, which I was very grateful for because you know how badly that yelling thing usually ends up--it's either me and the coumadin and a boxcutter, or an emergency visit to the therapist and frankly, neither one is all that fun.

I have to go back on account of I didn't have an attorney and the judge is very nice like that, he wants you to have every chance, really.  Or possibly he got tired of listening to two hour long rambling accounts of how it all went wrong but was not really the person's fault, and a lawyer can get it said in three sentences or less.

But either way, he's a gentleman, so I don't care.

The public defender people said they would like to help me, but really I am too rich and so they can't.  They have obviously never been introduced to my $900 light bill and my husband who has that lecture on why we will never retire.

But it's good to know that on paper, at least, we are tremendously successful and would someone kindly inform the neighbors, because I am pretty sure they don't know it, yet.

So, anyway, I suspect that in the final analysis I will end up being represented by Bill the Lawyer who got his Juris Doctorate from the same place I got my clergy certification, and who probably lied about passing the bar.  Or he just didn't know that walking past the Iron Horse was not "passing the bar" in any official capacity.

I'm thinking I'll probably get the death penalty.

Of course, that will nicely do away with the need for the overdose of coumadin and the boxcutter, so it's all good, really.  Also, it will not be ALL MY FAULT and I am damned sick and tired of everything being all my fault, so I can't say as I would mind all that much.

It is some consolation to know that Emma is also in the doghouse over the "all my fault" thing, as it seems her parents get right irate if she flips the walker with Ada in it, thus resulting in a concussion.  Also, locking the new kitty in the microwave, climbing in the dryer to hide and using one's Suzy Homemaker broom to sweep the cat box.

I believe it is only a matter of time before she offends the sensibilities of some Deputy and ends up in the cell next to mine.  And I look forward to it, because confining Emma is likely to be the last thing they ever do before building a new prison and getting all the inmates back from the Grand Caymans.

Ah well, there is hope for me and Em, yet.  I have great confidence in things coming right in the end,

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine, you know.  Be advised, power of any kind incurs a comensurate amount of responsibility.  If one were to forget that, and not exercise power judiciously, well.

I would not like to be the one explaining THAT to the Judge.  And I don't mean the one sitting in the courtroom, either.  As Harry Potter said to Lord Voldemort, try for some remorse, it's your only hope.

Emma visits the Granmudder

That's what she calls me, GranMUDDER, emphasis on the Mudder.

Em's having a little trouble with that whole "baby sister" concept.  She was very supportive of the whole thing once they got Ada home from the hospital.  Ada was better than a dolly, you could love her all you wanted and she rarely required anything but a bottle and a diaper change.

The problem began when it became evident that Ada had violated the basic contract whereby she would remain a pink blob who only needed a bottle and a diaper change to make her life complete.  Apparently no one told Em that baby sisters are not a static, one form only event.

Unlike new dollies, they grow up.

Ada learned to eat things.  At first, feeding her crackers was kind  of fun, but then Mom and Dad got all anal about not giving her marbles to eat, so that was no fun anymore.  And Ada learned to get around in her walker, which meant she could actually enter the hallowed and sacred space of Emma's personal room and touch things.  And the parents were opposed to hitting her over the head with books when she did.

Then Ada learned to crawl.  Now she was mobile both in and out of the walker and no one's toys were sacred.  Also, many fun things had to be removed from Emma's general area.  Emma was strongly opposed to this course of action, but no one cared.

Ada learned to vocalize and Daddy had the unmitigated gall to address her as, "Hey, Beautiful!"  Emma is beautiful, she holds the copyright, the patent, the screen rights and the royalties from beautiful.  Emma sued.  She's three so that involved kicking Daddy repeatedly in the knee and saying, "No, I will NOT give you one minute, Dad."

I don't know what that has to do with beautiful, it's what she said.  A Lot.  For a very long time.

Then Emma stepped up her game.  If they were going to lavish attention on that....sister.....SHE would demonstrate some attention getting they would not soon forget!  I think Emma might have been Caligula in a former life.  She took all the dishes out of the cupboard, climbed the dishwasher, washed the kitchen windows with the floor scrubbing sponge, unmade all the beds, robbed the jewelry boxes and wore all the watches and did all of it while stark naked and singing, "This little light of mine."

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants.  Emma took them off and began growling savagely at Ada anytime she came near.  Ada cried.  Emma didn't care.  She took off all her clothes again and decided to go out on the porch to ride the tricycle.  Naked.

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants.  Emma decided she needed to potty.  I don't know if she actually DID potty, I do know she used an entire mega roll of charmin to decorate the kitchen on her way back to the living room.

She also took all of the meat out of the freezer, left the refrigerator door wide open repeatedly, robbed the breadbox to make herself a sandwich with some brown and serve rolls I had forgotten were in there and reprogrammed the computer so it does things I think might be in Russian, or possibly some alien alphabet from another galaxy, but is certainly not English, and Emma won't give me the password.

I just want Washington to know that if some little green naked men get out of a saucer on the White House lawn and demand to be taken to their leader, just bring them here.  It will be Em who summoned them and you're better off just letting her do whatever she called them for.  Otherwise she'll growl at you and that will likely start an interstellar war and really, it's just simpler to let Lacey make them come into the living rroom and wear pants.

Lacey's really good at that.  We can feed them the rest of those rolls Emma found, that should ensure they will want to leave fairly quickly.

So, anyway, occasionally Emma remembers she kind of likes Ada.  Not enough to want to share toys with her, but enough that no one is allowed to touch her, look at her or babysit her.  She may be a major inconvenience, but she's EMMA'S major inconvenience and you had better not forget it.
She reminds me an awful lot of some other little girl who lived in Towerville long, long ago and had a little sister.

And that little girl reminded her grandma of another little girl long, long ago who lived around there and had a little sister.  For all I know, SHE may have had a grandma who was reminded...well, you get the idea.

Pilly and the Angiogram

Before you faint, it was a CT angiogram, so nobody ran a wire into my heart--go technology!  And before I poke fun at the entire proceeding, let me say that the ladies who finally got my IV in were amazing.

They were professional, courteous, kind, funny, helpful and are now my heroes, absolutely.  I don't know what they pay you, ladies, but it's not enough.  Ask for a raise and say Pilly said so.  I'll back you up.

So, anyway, on to the Pilly story.  Would I have any procedure without gaining a Pilly story from it?  No, I would not.  Get serious.

So, Jacob took me to the clinic, on account of I can't drive in LaCrosse and we all agree that me stranded in an intersection screaming and crying while trying to decide when it's safe to turn while many people behind me honk and scream obscenities is probably not a good idea.

And we got there with no trouble.  Jacob can even turn left into Kwik Trip.  I'm in awe.  Seriously.

I was a little set back at the clinic because I had counted on there being someone at the help desk to remind me where to go (I lost my instructions, no surprises there) but they were off exploring the medical museum or greeting people at the door and so I was on my own.

It's just a thought, but I don't need someone to greet me at the door.  It's not Wal-mart.  Just stick someone behind the help desk and make them stay there.  They can greet me while I'm desperately trying to figure out which way is the CT scan.

And I found the CT scan place, where some nice little girl gave me a box to hold and told me to go wait with a magazine.  I know what the box is for, but even so, when your startle reflex is so finely tuned a hand clap can send you into a seizure, how good is it to leave you with a vibrating box and a magazine?

Just as I expected, the box took me unaware and caused me to scream and throw it in the air.  At least there was no doubt in anyone's  mind who was next.  It led the nurse right to me.

So I went to the little room where they make you put on the backwards gown and the robe, which does nothing to cover you and after pointing out which one was the robe for the third time, on account of clearly they thought I might forget, they let me get undressed in there.

I forgot my purse on the way to my locker and had to go back for it, and then I couldn't open the door, get the key out, or hang everything neatly on hooks, but eventually I had the things stuffed in there, the door closed and the key around my wrist, so we went on.

We got to the place where they put in your IV and it turned out some grand Cardiologist was a little anal about only running the IV in your right arm.  We did try.  They numbed it each time, so it didn't hurt, really, which is good because I was only one among several older ladies and God knows what they would have thought if it had gotten any more complicated than it already was.

First, the obvious vein (you've probably had one or two  IVs in the crook of your elbow, so you know about that) no soap.

It turns out you have several other veins on the sides of your arm that will work in a pinch.  None of mine would, but still.  Don't give up hope.  They went and got the ultrasound machine to locate my elusive veins.  More numbing.  Still no luck.

Somebody went to talk to the grand Cardiologist, not mine, just the guy on call, and he said something like, screw the torpedos, full speed ahead, which apparently meant, keep digging.  We did.

More numbs it stuff.  They went and found a whole new person to try.  I liked the first one fine and didn't see why we should change, but the next one was nice, too.

Meanwhile many other old ladies came and went.  We had a lot of nice discussions about IVs and CT scans and life in general.  The new girl found a vein but it turned out to be an artery because it had a pulse.  I don't know if you know this, but you can't put an IV in an artery.  It was news to me.

More discussion with the grand Cardiologist who
1) still insisted on the right arm
2) wanted a number 18 cannula which was bigger than the vein, itself and
3) didn't care how long it took and assumed I didn't either.

I suggested we bring him down and poke five or six holes in his arm and then if he still thought it was a good idea, we could do me, again.  I was perfectly willing to use that ultra sound thing and have the girls teach me the fine art of IV running using him as a learning tool, but no, we weren't allowed to do that.

Eventually, the tube was in the side of my arm and we went off to the CT scan.  That was uneventful except for the part where they make you hold your arms above your head and hold your breath.  However, I have had the kind of Andiogram they do for real, where they run the wire into your heart, so believe me, I was not complaining.

It was a little embarrassing that I couldn't sit up afterward from a prone position, thus announcing to all that my abs are plainly on permanent vacation and refuse to do anything at all, but at least it was quick.

Getting the IV out was much simpler, and before you could say Bob's your uncle, I was on my way home.  And Jacob drove me home along the river and I saw an eagle.  Seeeing the eagle wasn't so great I would be willing to undergo that whole IV experience again for the privilege, but it was still pretty cool.

Today my arm is black and blue all the way around, I have more needle holes than an IV drug user and I even brusied where we tied the elastic around my arm, so I have my own, built in mourning band.  On the upside, it hurts to use that hand for anything, so I'm not waxing the floor til tomorrow.

I think I'll play with Emma, today.  She's way more fun than a medical procedure, I can tell you that.

Freedom

I once read a really great short story--I wish I could remember the title or the author, I'm sorry I can't--in which freedom was defined by the ability to say, "I won't."

And it is how to define freedom, just watch:

Pilly, quit expressing your opinion on line.

"I Won't".

Pilly, stop criticizing your local government.

"I won't."

Pilly, stop expressing your opinion about Wal-mart.

"I won't."

And so on. This morning I found the link to this blog disabled. I don't know why it would be or who is responsible and maybe it's just a fluke. Probably it is. But it certainly made me think about freedom.

I love my country, I even admire the President very much, I have trusted him since the first moment I heard him speak, I think his wife is beautiful and intelligent and kind, I think his children are adorable, I even like his dog.

I'm not wildly confident of the integrity of the House and Senate, but we're all just human, and Washington Government is in a very public eye, so I don't worry too much about that.

State government is in less of a public eye, certainly not under global scrutiny like Washington, but under enough scrutiny that we can probably be sure nothing too radical will slip by us.

But local government, now.....well, this is a small and rural place, the eye we're in isn't all that public, the checks and balances might not be quite so visible here. But it's still America, isn't it?

And as an American, I know that my freedom matters every bit as much as that of the President of the United States, himself. I know the President would say so, and I know he would mean it when he did, because I have a feeling the little people matter an awful lot to Barack Hussein Obama.

Because we're the ones who needed him most, we're the ones who trust him, we're the ones who believe in him and we're the ones who just keep on voting for all the things he thinks are a good idea.

And as a black man in America, I bet he knows a lot of stories about small rural governments, little towns where power goes to the head of the people who believe themselves to hold all the power, and what can happen to someone that the neighbors perceive as less....worthy....than themselves of actual justice.

Which would be not the letter, but the spirit of the law.

And so, as an American I encourage you to remember the man who said, "...and when they came for me, there was no one left to say anything," as he was taken off to Auschwitz, because that was the moment he realized that if they do it to me today, they can do it to you tomorrow. And that just because you think you're exempt, maybe you'd better rethink that.

Because people who get a little heady with power sometimes go Too Far. That's why our government--large and small--was designed to HAVE checks and balances. Because our forefathers knew that when a dog goes mad, it's a good thing if you already have a man in place whose job it is to leash that dog and put a muzzle on it before it bites the wrong person in the ass.

Freedom is a wonderful thing. Wonderful. And if you ask me to stop talking about it, if you try to make me stop talking about it, well, I Won't.

God Bless America.

To Ashley

Last night, you experienced the greatest loss any woman ever knows, the loss of your unborn child. And it was your child. Not a fetus, not a "collection of cells or tissue," but your child.

Well meaning people are going to try to minimize your loss in a futile attempt to make you feel better, but it won't make you feel better. I know. Your mother and I each lost a child, as well.

For me it was my second, but for your mother it was her first, like yours, and that is the cruelest loss of all, the loss of the firstborn.

I am writing this because, one day, I hope you will be able to read it and know that you do not grieve alone and that in the world there is one person, at least, who understands.

For me, the hardest parts were that no no one would recognize my loss AS a loss. It was not a "blessing in disguise," or"not meant to be" and if it was God's will, I could only wonder why my loving Father would give me a gift like that and then take it away, before I ever got to enjoy it.

There is a reason for everything that happens, and God is a loving Father, but I still have no answer to that particular why, I expect I never will. I would like to think that it might have been, in part, because He knew that in 25 years or so, the person I loved best and was closest to would also suffer a catastrophic loss, and was going to need someone who understood the need to grieve.

I know that nothing you did caused this, and you need to know that, too. Really KNOW it. This is not your fault, nothing could have changed it, no matter what you did or failed to do you could not have changed the outcome.

Sometimes, things don't develop as they ought to, when something is so catastrophically wrong that the fetus can never become a viable, living child, we are designed to stop the process. Because God loves us and little babies, and spares us what we would suffer if we had to see those hurts made manifest in our child.

And though you may not believe me now, THAT hurt would be a thousand times crueler than the one you're suffering right now.

But having said that, now let me say this. You lost a baby. A person. Someone more precious to you than life, itself. And you have a right to grieve. The hardest part is having no grave to visit, no place to lay flowers, no stone that says that, even if for only a few weeks, your baby lived. And was loved. And strongly desired and desperately awaited.

Now, you are some one's mother, and no one can ever take that from you, my love. No one. So grieve as much as you must, know that empty arms are not empty forever, that broken hearts do mend, even if a little crookedly.

If you cannot have a grave to visit, plant a tree or a rosebush, and on this anniversary visit that place, and cry and leave a flower, and remember your child. And someday, even be a little glad that, even if for only a little time, you were everything to that little person.

You were food and shelter and a heartbeat that comforted. You were Mom, who was there at the beginning and that cradled that little life until it went back to God, and was cuddled by His Mother until you could come, and take it in your own arms.

I love you, Ashley. You ARE the kindness. Be brave, there is a child in your future that's going to need you. I promise. And you must be there for that.