Monday, June 28, 2004

I KNOW A LOT OF THIS IS PMS, BUT STILL...

Mom you always say to warn you, so I'm warning you. Don't read this one.

*sigh* I'm having a bad day. A shit day. A 'I want to crawl back into bed, and go back to sleep until tommorrow' day.

I couldn't put my finger on it right away. I woke up kind of dazed because I was exhausted from the weekend... more on that in a bit. I had some wierd dreams... two that I clearly remember involved me hanging out with Heather at Angela's house. I remember clearly thinking "I am not cool enough to be sitting in this room right now." I don't know why I dreamt of them, as I've barely exchanged a hello, except for one or two emails that I dropped to Angela to let her know that one or more of entries had made me snort diet cherry coke out my nose. Seriously, if you aren't reading either one of those ladies, you need to be. Go on, git!

The other dream was about Lori and I trying to escape a house that was haunted by way of a murder that had happened there... it was like a flashback, so I think I've had that dream before. It was enough to make me wake up rattled.

Anyway. We moved 97% of my Grandpa's belongings out of the home he shared with my Grandma since 1977. 24 years. 24 years that they lived there together. 3 years that he's lived there all by himself. 3 years that still held food that my grandma had purchased with the intent to prepare. 3 years that it has sat untouched, her 4 drawer canister (I wish I'd taken a picture, VERY retro) that held flour, sugar, tea and coffee. In that order. It was probably her hands that measured flour last out of that canister. It was her hands that probably were the last to touch the container of crisco, that still had the scoop inside. Her hands that used her frying pan last. You get the idea.

After she passed away, we (my mom, my aunt, Lori and myself) had the task of moving 'her' out of their bedroom. Turning it into a room just for Grandpa. That was hard... this was hard too, but in a different way. I can't quite put my finger on it. We moved Grandpa all day on Saturday and it wasn't as hard as I thought it might be. It's a move that needed to happen. He's going to be 84 this November. He's lonely, he get's sick more often... we all welcome this move, as not only will he be able to afford the costly prescriptions he's prescribed, but he'll have round the clock care if he needs it at my aunt's house.

Last night mom said she didn't have room for the canister's when we dropped off a few of the last items we still had in the blazer from the move. I should state here that we threw away almost nothing on Saturday. Stuff was tossed before I guess, but for all intents and purposes, we found homes for everything else. Gladware. Drinking Glasses. Pillows. Everything. Much of it ended up in a storage unit my mom rented, and will be doled out as people need it... broke your can opener? Here's another one. That sort of thing. I had said more than once "I dont' know why we don't just throw it away" about some of the kitchen stuff, knick knacks etc. When I threw away the canister set last night I didn't think anything of it at first.

But it ate at me. It continues to eat at me. Those were my Grandma's... who the hell am I to throw them out? In 30 years will my own kids be throwing out my mom's canisters? What right do I have to throw anything that was her's away? That's what my heart is saying. Logically, I know, and I understand that she's gone... but that's what's going through my head today. She's gone... she's really gone. Her canister's are in the garbage, and she's not coming back. Her house is sold, she would have nowhere to come back to. As asinine as that sounds, that's what I'm thinking... and it fucking hurts.

Grief is motherfucker. It's been laying dormant for a while now, and today it's like someone has ripped off the bandaid... the grief itself is bad enough. But add to that how absolutely shitty I feel for putting something of hers in the trash and you see why I hate the world today.

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