Things To Write About

This is the 350th post of This Being Alive. Hard for this writer to believe. 


There's so much to write about, some days I feel stumped, silenced, only able to post a photo, and a quote, maybe a poem. 


Things to write about like the email reminding me to wish a friend on Facebook, Happy Birthday...the only problem being she died ten days ago.


Or Dad's trip to visit my brother in NYC and how he got himself a little turned around when he got off the bus, ending up at Gate 222, two floors up, while his bus came in at Gate 23. My brother, Pete, was frantic, not knowing where to begin looking. 
I had said to Dad before he left, "Do you have your cell phone?" 
He said, "Yes, hon."
I should've followed up with, "Is it turned on?"
Dad finally turned his phone on and was united with Pete in the midst of Port Authority. Still.


I could write about how I strive to be open-hearted in my marriage while I hold my husband's hand to the fire over things I've dubbed hurtful. That's, as we say in my family, a sticky wicket. 


The snow falling in thick flakes, is a story, even though all I've been dreaming of is getting my hands in the dirt and moving things around in my garden.


One daughter grown, another growing up, a grandaughter who calls me Bean, wrinkles to surrender to, or not. There's the friend's husband who went to work and was told, "You're done. Sorry. And no, you can't go back to your desk. You'll be escorted from the building. We'll try to send you your personal items." God bless Corporate America.


There's that.


I could write about long walks by the river, reading in bed, a hot bath, tea. Or slipping upstairs to curl up with Owen, old orange cat, still in the witness protection program ever since Chewy, the big-eared dog came to live with us. Remember Chewy?


Closing my eyes, I can still feel my cousin's brand-new baby, Quinn Claire, curled up asleep under my chin, the two of us breathing together way back in October, which feels like five chapters ago, at least.


And always, there's the missing my mother thing.


I have a small black book where I keep a list of happy things:
finding a turtle in the road
getting a massage
teaching yoga
talking to Jess
sitting in front of the fire
writing my blog tonight
laughing while hugging Claire
the sound of Michael's saxophone
watering and weeding the garden
writing