rivervox

Today for some reason, I thought about my stepfather's sister's family, who we often visited when I was a kid. This family of 8 lived on nearby farms and I spent many hours playing in barns and hanging out with diary cows. Drinking raw milk from the bulk tank. I was wondering what happened to the cousin closest to my age when I remembered the death of another girl. Her family owned the farm where my step uncle worked. We became friends, spending time together on farm visits, writing letters and seeing each other at sporting events.

All I remember is that I was in the bathroom getting ready for school when my mother told me she had died. She took pills and went out into the fields to die because of something that happened at school. I'm trying to remember if it was bad grades or being caught drinking. Either way, in despair of the school telling her parents, she killed herself. I was devastated. I don't think my mother realized how much it affected me. We didn't go to the funeral and none of my friends new her so I had to process it alone. I'm not sure I did.

So today I searched and I found her. Her grave. It really happened. It was last March 1982. She was 15. Around my youngest daughters age. It's hitting me again in a new way. What was the dynamic in that family? Was it them or some terrible sadness in her? I will never know. I could try to find her older sister. My cousin. Would they care that someone remembers her? Misses her 40 years later?

I may write more about this, but I want to record it here. And think about the young people I know who died there. Was it a lot statistically? Most are car crash victims. Impaired, too fast. Gone. The names: Linda, Eva, Jamie, Danny, Tom Day. I guess now teens know kids who were shot at school or killed themselves. This feels morbid, but it's something I carry that never got looked at or processed.

Just reflecting on all the death, darkness and change in the last half of 2018. So heavy. It brought me to my knees. We lost Zephyr. He literally died in my hands while Honey was away. Anthony Bourdain. I was surprised by the depth of my grief. The stress of the bat mitzvah and subsequent frustrations were exhausting. We moved offices, which for some reason threw me for a loop. No resilience. No bounce. I worked at home for weeks, growing more depressed as it coincided with my annual grief fest during the period when my mother was dying. Then to lose Uncle Rod and have Aunt Imy so ill. It just all ground to a halt. In other news, my hip injury has been slowing me down. The pain and stress wearing away at me day after day.

A new year. A new office. New plays to see and places to go.