Letting Go Of The Grass.

"Hey, Mom. Can we die together? Like at the same time. Or at least on the same day?"

This sudden, scratchy inquiry emerges from the eight year old snuggled under my armpit. One minute we're howling at what Miller inadvertently called Christina Aguilera's "calluses" (she meant cleavage, but noticing how rough around the edges Xtina looks tonight, I think calluses might also be a pretty accurate descriptor) and the next we're having our quarterly "Revolt Against Death" talk. Just one of several heartsick habits here.

"I really want us to die on the same day, Mom. If we can. Because I don't think I could go on without you. That would be too sad for me." Voice now quivering, she is on the verge of tears and I quickly pull her closer so she isn't hit by my falling jaw.

It's at this moment I give brief thanks for the fact I have started feverishly biting my fingernails again. Because that's likely the only thing that's currently preventing me from being able to claw into my chest cavity with my own fingers to pull out my aching heart. Cue my mental Iron and Wine montage. Geese sadly fly south over autumn's ending while I'm quietly whispering the likely sad truth my heart wants to share as beautifully as Sam Beam.

"One of us will die inside these arms

eyes wide open

naked as we came

one will spread our ashes round the yard..."

"That's not the way it works, Miller. It's not up to us. Plus, if I have my way, you are going to live many, many years beyond me into what I imagine will be your really beautiful, wonderful life." That's about all I can muster before I start biting into the east side of my mouth to defer the pain from my chest. And look! Calluses Aguilera is back from her commercial break and so it appears we can thankfully start the laugh tracks again.




"So has anyone ever tried hanging on?"

This was another couch question tossed at me a few weeks later, seemingly from left field. Well, actually from my left armpit where the always curious blondie was again snuggled deep in my side while windshield wipering the top of her lemon Italian ice with her spoon.

"Tried hanging on? Hanging on to what? And who is hanging?" I obviously have no idea what this kid is talking about right now. But if you've ever held court and conversation with an eight year old girl, you know this kind of confusion isn't uncommon.

"You know, like when you die. Has anyone ever tried to hang on to, like, the grass? Or a tree branch? You know...like right before you die and before you're sucked up to heaven or the sky or wherever you go. Has anyone ever tried to hang on to the grass?" She musters up what I imagine is supposed to be some sort of a death face, eyes crossed and rolling up into her noggin while she pretends to grab at something.

How absolutely sweet and amazing and hilarious and wonderful. How absolutely,  annihilatingly Miller. I begin to imagine people frantically hanging onto garden gnomes and grasping flamingo necks...people white-knuckling tree branches and grasping onto fistfuls of grass and I can't help but laugh.

Thankfully, she starts laughing too.

"I don't know, Miller. I just don't think that would actually work, do you?"

She pauses to give it more consideration and smirks.

"Probably not. I mean, I don't see a lot of people hanging around. So that probably wouldn't work even if you tried, I guess." She seems a little bit sad as her raspy voice trails off a bit, but soon we both start a low-grade church giggle that thankfully lasts for the next several minutes and lightens the air.



Death and dying questions and conversations happen frequently in this house. They originate from both the boy and the girlie, who are each pretty thougthful and sensitive souls.

"Why are we even here if we just have to die and leave after? That's just really sad."

"Does everything have to die?"

"What happens when you die?"

"How many dead people do you know?"

"Have you every touched a dead person?"

Most often, when the death chatter comes, it's in response to a very overtired, melancholy voice simply stating the obvious.

"I really don't want to die."

This is probably a great time to give credit and thanks to Leo Buscalgia and Daniel, his calm, knowing leaf, for arming me with some simple, lovely language to comfort my little fretting "Freddies." Death can indeed feel very big and scary if we linger too long, molding our mental death masks.  Instead, let's acknowledge it and move on, loves. Let's try to concentrate on living our best life and doing our individual and collective jobs. Better to "experience the sun and the moon, the wind and the rain" and to "learn to dance and to laugh."

Because in the end, once all this wonderful living takes place, Daniel the wise, wide leaf gently reminds us, "Everything dies."

That's how it's beautifully described in Buscalgia 's book "The Fall of Freddie the Leaf."  That's the way it's ideally supposed to be.

But as we know, and are sadly reminded, that's not always the way it happens. We were reminded of this recently when a very bright, lovely, and promising 16 year old took his own life as it was seemingly just entering the starting gate.

He was extended family, the son of the cousin of my former husband on the Batchelder side of his family, which comes flanked with an unspoken "once you're in, you're in" motto. Sicilian mafia style. So regardless of things like divorce and time, our family tightly remains family and my kids saw first hand several adult hearts fracture as we all baked and fondled Kleenex and tried to grasp this magnificent loss and what it meant to all who loved him dearly and were left behind to cope.

This prompted the kids to ask some really difficult questions. Being naturally curious and slightly obsessed death themselves, they really wanted to understand why a person would feel the need to end their life. Why would someone actually choose to die?

"But why, mom?" (repeat eight million times)

There are sadly established things that can't be properly compartmentalized with words. Suicide is one. Especially when from the comfortably-seated audience you only see a successful, wonderful, hopeful motion picture playing out. So I've tried to carefully navigate this, explaining that one of the most beautiful things about teenagers is they are often boldly brave and incredibly impulsive.

However, one of the most horrible thing about teenagers is that they are often boldly brave and incredibly impulsive.

I keep telling my kids that it's OK that it doesn't make sense right now. I hug them tightly into my chest, smell their beautiful heads, and tell them how much I love them. Maybe even too much for their own good. I tell them they can, and should, keep asking me questions and that I will always try to help them find the right answers. I will also help them cope with the fact we may never find all of them.

I keep hoping that's enough.

A few weeks after the funeral, the kids randomly asked to see Cody's 16th birthday video again. We sat on the couch, arms and legs tangled, watching on the tiny screen of my phone. The chorus to Fun's "We Are Young" played and both kids began to quietly sing along. I could barely hold my 4.7 ounce phone up. "He was really handsome, Mom," Jackson remarked. I couldn't muster more than a cracked half yes from my throat, which I followed with a nod and a squeeze to his hand. I could feel Miller move her giant blues from the video to my black streaked face, which would have no doubt given Alice Cooper's a solid run for his money back in the day, and she watched and waited as I pushed my sweatshirt sleeve around to mop my face up, soaking the cuff.  She sweetly patted my back to reassure me as the video ended, and with one small, perfect sentence, this eight year old defined this horrible heartbreak better that any adult could on their most articulate day.

"I think Cody just felt like he needed to let go of the grass, Mom."

The Weight of Yarn

For those of you stitch strumpets and yarn hustlers, I'm actually not talking technical about the worsted, superfine or superbulky weight of the strings I enjoy fiddling with when the temperature drops.

I'm talking about the anchoring heftiness of a recent knitting project.

Instead of clicking my Logitech keyboard, I have been clicking a pair of Takumi Clover size 6 needles against one other. I started a rather tedious and ambitious project at the beginning of October. Tedious because if you have ever straight stitched for more than two months, well then you know there is no grand excitement or clever mystery to this monotonous handiwork. I guess I consider the project to be ambitious because I have a couple of young kids, a busy job, and addiction to Showtime programming that often requires my full attention and forces my needles to pause so I can grab Kleenex or hide under the puffy pastel pink Cinderella sleeping bag my daughter constantly keeps on the couch. All of these wonderful things tend to wrestle with the productivity of my hand-spun fun.

The other slight challenge of this business was that I had started this project as a gift for the significant someone. Each weekend the project was carefully forced into witness protection about an hour before his arrival and would resurface when things were safe and he was back in his car commuting home.

Pardon me while I stop here a moment. I am aware there are approximately eleven or so generous, patient people who read and encourage my rambles. Thank you for doing so. I actually know #11 personally and while he is a very talented lad, I do not believe he knits. Of this lovely small group, I am certain at least three of you knit. And I pause here because I know exactly what you are thinking right now. I picture your mouths all agog and your thought bubbles exclaiming in bold Calibri Oh my GOD she broke THE cardinal rule of knitting! Holy Shit! NO! You NEVER break The Rule!

For those of you non-knitters, I am speaking of the 'Labor of Love' Rule, also known as 'The Sweater Curse'. There are slightly different versions of this rule/curse, but let's just say that the curse suggests that if one knits a sweater or special project (like a VERY awesome, slightly nerdy Dr. Who-inspired stripey and endless scarf) for their love before there is a legal and binding commitment, within days or weeks of delivering the said labor of love to said sweet, he will drop you like it's hot (hot) and waltz off looking all Snoop-D-O-double-G and very handsome in that fucking awesome thing you just knit for him. Which he will quite likely wear in an upcoming Facebook photo. That shows up in your news feed and leaves you wanting you to stab said knitting needles into your eyes.

Well. Something like that....

Now that all of you are up to speed on the curse, let's continue.

Here is another little interesting tidbit about yarn. Yarn has an insane memory. Even when you slide it from needles and pull it straight, it will put up a fight to hang onto its former shape. The purlish bumps and bends, though no longer supported by their partnering stitches, will beg to stay as they were. Once you rip a project apart, the yarn often becomes too difficult to knit with again. Certainly feel free to try if you enjoy that sort of a struggle. But I digress. Often.

Back to this lovely winding scarf. I mean story.

If any of you are fellow Virgos, or should you believe that shit about the sixth sign of the astrological year having an obsessive attention to detail, well you can certainly appreciate the horror of starting an important project and discovering mid-project the dreaded (pardon the mommy-ism) "boo boo". An imperfection so small no one else may ever notice, certainly not your bespectacled recipient, but a tiny mistake that you can't seem to keep your obsessive eyes and hands off. Here's the thing. Part way through this tedious project I noticed something was off. Maybe a small twisted stitch? I really couldn't be certain, as I am not an expert knitter. But there was a tiny flaw. I could tell.

So what's a girl so ruled by Mercury to do?

In projects past, I would have been pissed. I would not have considered it, like some might, to 'add character'. Oh, hell no. This? Well this is a perfect opportunity to flog myself like Agent Nelson Van Alden (sorry if you don't watch Boardwalk Empire. Your bad. You are really missing out). Instead of appreciating the good, I would have painfully perseverated on the crooked bit, stitched several more anxious rows, and then I would have ripped the shit apart. Simply yanked it back and then started over (possibly from scratch if I couldn't get my stitches back in a regimental row).

But this project was different. I simply couldn't rip it back. I really didn't even have any sort of desire to. At the point when I noticed the little odd twist of yarn, I was already deeply in love with this thing. The stretch of days between seeing my guy sometimes felt as endless as the straight-stitching. This growing autumnal wave of soft vintage Berroco was already long enough to warm my legs and I imagine I must have looked like Linus each time I pulled it from the bag and snuggled in to knit for the night. I loved the feel of this yarn. I also loved that this was the first project that allowed me to look at its larger beauty and appreciate its unique origin and heartfelt intentions. I was very proud of the purpose behind it, designed to wrap JP in his favorite colors and keep him warm this winter mid-week while we were apart from the other. I think it is safe to say that I was a smidge smug. I imagined my humble acceptance speech for the 'Girlfriend of the Year' award I was sure I would earn.

A few weeks ago JP and I broke things off.

Of course this is gut wrenching and personal and a rather big swim though painful waves that pound at the heart. At this age, I don't think that two people choose to spend such a pretty fabulous year together without believing that they might get a piece of the happily ever after. And no, I do not believe I was smacked with 'The Sweater Curse' or punished by breaking the 'Labor of Love Rule'. If I let that kind of foolishness come between me and embarking on knitting something made with creative, sincere love, well then (please! please! please!) hang me like David Carradine from the very project I've feverishly and thoughtfully labored.

The bottom line? We had a very near miss. Maybe that's why this feels extra difficult in the early days.

It was hard to pick up the knitting again. The first time I pulled the scarf out I was in a pathetic panic. I felt an anxious and immediate need to finish it, put it in a box and to send it off to Somerville. As soon as possible. I was completely overwhelmed; sobbing sad tears and snotting all over it. I'm hoping that bit of charming news will make the intended recipient(and everyone else on my gift-giving list) happy to know that I have recently decided to keep the scarf. I'm keeping it for myself.

This scarf has become quite a lovely, lengthy metaphor. I am happy to report it is almost complete and I can now click my needles together each night without focusing on the slight imperfections woven into the relationship that inspired it and without wanting to completely rip myself or the past apart like an old knitting project. I have begun to appreciate how the heavy, long tangle of geeky stripes warm me at night in lieu of the guy it was intended for. I'm also thinking of super-nerding it out with some tassels when it's finally complete.

So, yes. I'm keeping the scarf. And while I'm at it, I'm keeping hope that both JP and I find someone warm and cozy to share our happily ever after with. But until then, I am really looking forward to giving old man winter the finger while wrapping myself up in this slightly imperfect but rather profound gift to myself.

What's the frequency, Kenneth?

I'm sure the lady unloading her shopping cart next to me was wishing she could have dialed that frequency up last night at the local checkout. From the look on her overly concerned and puckered face she was surely having a William Tagger moment and wishing she could find the frequency to stop the clairvoyant crazy train from circling her mind. At least she didn't jump me...

But let's back this up a bit. Up until approaching the checkout tonight, this had been one of those weeks. A week that military-marched in with steel-toed boots to kick some ass. Mine, to be exact. However, it was also a week that was supposed to end with an amazing and much-anticipated hug. A sweet warm place returning to tangle and untangle promised arms and traveling yarns. A welcomed light at the end of a dark tunnel, which unfortunately turned out to be the lights of a barreling train. Yes, the combat footwear of this week found clandestine means to kick even those highly-needed opportunities quickly to the side gutter of a raw city street. This war zone of a week slowly and methodically kicked my ass. And instead of finding my own bootstraps to pull myself up by, I just clung to the words and shoulders of others who understood. The week was littered with balls of mascara-stained Kleenex and lots of loud, oscillating swear words, and visits and calls from really great friends. I mean it is so damn dark before the dawn, isn't it? I was reminded of this by a friend's gentle, poignant words. And by the week's unruly events.

My "dawn" was proving to be Friday night. This was a chance to get part of the original week's perfect plans right. To see some great friends and hear great tales of Mr. Ray Davies and guitar capos sung by two of my favorite singers accompanied by one of my favorite drummers. So I pulled my riding boots up over my tights, brushed down my skirt and left for Somerville to salvage the week as I've salvaged many others over the last few years. I stop to grab some wine to go with dinner...

So here I am at the checkout line with the women with the aforementioned worried and puckered brow. The one soon to be called bat shit crazy or clairvoyant, depending on who is retelling this story. I'm third back in the express line holding a bottle of Red Zin and another spicy blend of red with clever marketing that pulled at my silly sensibilities, waiting to pay. I hadn't really even noticed her at this point as I was too busy staring at wall of tabloids and wondering when Jennifer Aniston might ever wear something other than the color grey. I did hear her, however. She had a very loud and concerned voice.

Are you alright? It was sharp. Almost urgent. But I half paid attention because damned if I was going to turn around and have to perform CPR on someone who had stumbled on the checkout floor. Hell no. Not this week. I was on a mission to chase a delicious Zing pizza with copious amounts of red wine and then see some Rapid Shave. So didn't even turn around the second time she half-shouted the words again.

The third time I heard the frantic are you OK I had to look. The guilt was getting to me I guess. With a bottle of red in each tightly wound fist I turned to see what the commotion was. And you know what? It appeared that she was looking at me!

Her very serious eyes never left mine as she reached into her basket to continue to unload her piles of groceries. Are you going to be OK, Miss? she asked me. And she was indeed worried.

Me.
Me?!

I gave her a very half-assed DiNiro impression and ask her "are you talking to me?" Because right now, we have an audience of at least eight. Two girls at the checkout, the baggers, the couple in front of me, and the few single others waiting to cash out their stuff. All eyes volleying between this frenzied woman with willowy grey hair down to her waist and my now very-anxious self.

Yes you, she replies rather seriously. You. You are GRIEVING. You are so very sad and filled with grief and darkness. Your aura. I can feel it. See it. Are you going to be OK? She places a roll of Brawny paper towels on the belt and pauses. Me? Oh how I'm wishing I had an opener for the wine. I feel like I could really benefit from an immediate haul off one of these bottles.

The guy in front of me gives me a wink and then an eye roll towards the woman who has not stopped unloading her cart, nor staring right into me. He's giving me the ol' Holy-shit-dude-that-lady-is-fucking-insane look. The guy is clearly amused. And hell. So am I. But obviously for very different reasons.

Am I wrong she inquires? I don't think I'm wrong, but I could be off today. I see these things you know. And right now I see darkness around your tired heart tonight. I don't think she has blinked since we started our conversation....

I begin to wonder what I must look like to her. Because damn. I'm showered. Makeup is where it belongs vs. running down my cheeks all Tammy Faye horror-like as in the several days prior. Had she seen me Thursday afternoon, well OK. I can understand how she might have been concerned about my aura and shit. The horror of the aura. Seeing me in the middle of one of my Oprah-coined "ugly cries" even gets me a little worried because I soooo hate to cry. It's messy and rarely makes me feel any better. But it's been hours since I had teared up. Damn it. I thought I at least could pass for content tonight. Maybe I need some lipgloss...

She apologizes over the whispers and snickers of the people around us. I tell her it's OK. I tell her she's actually right on the money in many ways. She nods and says she knows. And if I wasn't next in line to ring out and so anxious to get the hell out of New Hampshire and get myself in front of the eyes of good friends, I would have asked her a few more questions. After all, I was rather gobsmacked. (Gobsmacked. What a fucking fantastic gift from our former colonial overlords. I just love that word, by-the-way....) So yup. I'm all gobsmacked because here is this perfect stranger reaching out with such sincere and intense concern. As though she saw and tallied up the events of my week. As though she understood that indeed some days are, as Dean reminded me, so fucking dark right before the dawn. I thought about this my whole ride into Cambridge. This woman. This week.

Suddenly I find myself turning onto Auburn Street. And there is a perfect parking spot waiting directly in front of Shari's place. The wine we share is spicy and amazing and the sweet delivery boy brings us this thin-crust pie with spinach, sweet butternut squash and even sweeter caramelized onions covered with blue cheese. The night unfolds gently and I get to see Kevin and Jason and meet their lovely girlfriends. I hear Mike and John sing sweet harmonies and tell stories and I drink winter ale with Shari. We leave to laugh and act like teenagers, playing Rock Band and KILLING our favorite songs into the wee hours of another morning. This stuff....this night...it inspires the good tears that come now. The ones that acknowledge that even in the midst of rather rough and unpredictable weeks, the sun can and will eventually agree to show her beautiful kind face again. She battles as hard as I to show her happy face. And to kick that very last, very cold, dark hour to the curb.