Learning To Dance...

It started small - a sound, a song, a line that I've heard you say over and over again. I smiled when I heard it, thinking of you. But as the minutes dragged on, that smile faded and is once again replaced with this pain, this emptiness.

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

To lose someone you love is to alter your life forever. The pain eases, there are new people, but the gap never closes. This hole in your heart is the shape of the one you lost - no one else can fit it.

My brother will die over and over again for the rest of my life. Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Andre because I will never stop loving him. That's just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined; you don't get one without the other.

You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your loved one. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you pull through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly — it still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.

Troopin' Fairies...

It's just another stormy day in The 100 Acre Woods...or East Toronto, to be precise. I don't mind the storms, I tend to get a little excitement from watching the lightning flash angrily in the sky, the dark ominous clouds roll in, hearing the rain beat against the roof. Happy days...(content sigh).
I'm currently enrolled in a slightly serious conversation with my beloved wolf-wolfing sister. We're going to be living together by the end of the month and are looking at apartments as we speak. It will be nice to live with her, I've found her to be somewhat tolerable. Hopefully there won't be any questionable sweaters lying around for us to fight over, I wouldn't want to mess up her pretty face...again. :D On second thought, maybe I should plant something to create this messing I mentioned. After all, I will have to assert my dominance as the wolf pack leader at some point. Oh, what fun it will be! I cannot wait for the sisterly bonding to commence.
On to more important news: I so totally stubbed my toe this morning. It was very intense and unexpected, and for a brief moment after the stubbing I think my life might've flashed before my eyes...but it could've just been me seeing red from the pain. Either way, I started to contemplate my existence, and analyzed every decision I've ever made up until now. This is the conclusion I came to: Enough is enough, I need to rearrange my freakin' furniture.
Well, enough with the serious talk, I wouldn't want to bring you all down with my Moments of Clarity.
There is an old song that several members of my overgrown family wrote and used to sing when i was but a wee hobbit, 9 or 10 years old I believe. After a painstaking 5 minutes on the guitar, I finally figured out the chords to this lovely melody. I will proceed to write the words and chords for you now...cuz I'm white like that. :)

In the Trees and the Meadows

 Words and lyrics by the Von McKen Family Singers

Am                    D     

In the trees and the meadows,

 Am                        D

Vincent was a troopin' fairy.

Am                  D

In the trees and the meadows,

         Am                D

Troopin' in circles all day long.

 Am                       D

In the trees and the meadows,

 Am          D

That's where he lived.

 Am                     D

That's where Vincent lived,

 Am                    D

In the trees and the meadows.

(repeat 13-16 times, add random harmonies)

You have just been exposed to the secret life of the McKens. You're welcome.

The Only Way....

I awoke this morning to a nice cool breeze blowing in my window. It would've been a wonderful way to wake up, except that the nice cool breeze was accompanied with ice cold rain on my face. "No matter," I spoke aloud to no one, "These ice pellets are a nice change from the usual sweat that I wake up with." I arose and spent the next 10 minutes looking for my clothes, which I donned slowly. Being the nighthawk that I am, in the mornings I refuse to move any faster than a sloth swimming through peanut butter. I threw on my shoes and a hoodie, grabbed my keys and some change, and set out for Timmy's. I opened the front door, only to be thrown back inside by a gigantic blast of wind. I grinned to myself. Oh, how I do love a good storm. There's just something about the angry sky opening up and releasing it's torrential wrath on the poor unfortunate souls below, the lightning flashing viciously in the sky, taunting any and all who dare defy it.
I walked as swiftly as I could down the street, although with the wind fighting my every move I barely moved faster than a crawl. At long last, looking like a wet cat dragged out of the river, I arrived at Timmy's. Some broad in front of me was in the process of ordering what appeared to be THE ENTIRE MENU, so I had no choice but to wait in line. I know I rolled my eyes a few times when she couldn't decide between "...ummmmm....like, the chicken sandwich is good....but like, I don't know, like, so is the ham...oh em geeeee, what do I want....ummmm...." God save me.
Finally my waiting paid off, and I was whisked to the counter. I swiftly ordered my medium 3-3, gleefully grinned upon receiving it, and paid the lovely woman. My walk back was much more pleasant, with the wind on my back. I got home, grabbed my stoggies and headed to the back porch. The roof extended over the balcony, so I was sheltered from the majority of the rain, which I was thankful for. I don't know how many of you have ever tried smoking a cigarette in a freakin' monsoon, but it's a wee bit of a challenge. And don't get me wrong, I love a challenge every now and then, but if there's two things that should never be messed with, it's my coffee and my smoke...and ESPECIALLY when I'm having them together.
As I sat outside puffing on my cancer sticks, I started thinking of the ridiculous measures some of us are willing to go to for our little pleasures. Walking 20 minutes in a thunderstorm to get a coffee, sitting outside in the cold drenched to the bone, just to have a smoke.
Some people call it an addiction. I prefer to look at it as commitment.