My little dead dumpling:
Did I ever tell you the story of your Scottish Auntie Sarah and I making knedlach in Flora? No? Well, suffice to say they were inedible and you're lucky you missed it. Dumplings only became my forte later in life.
'What do you say/ when its all gone away/Baby I didn't mean to hurt you/Truth spoke in whispers will tear you apart/No matter how hard you resist it/You humble me, Lord,' Sings Miss Norah. Writes Mr Breit.
See that? Mama likes her citations.
Mama likes a lot things. I like my shoes, my pretty dresses, scarves and suits. I like my lingerie well made and my wine well-stocked. I like my records tidy and to hum show tunes as I walk down the street. I've never been pragmatic about money and - if we're being honest - I'm not sure I know how to be.
I know. How relieved are you with regards to the latter? You'll not ever have to hear me sing the entire 'Thoroughly Modern Millie' soundtrack as we clatter in the stroller equivalent of a 4x4.
And yet. . . how heartbroken does that make me? I'll never get to wipe my 'Red Carpet Red' lipstick off your cheek with a saliva-wet napkin, never get to nag you about what time you'll be home or worry when you venture beyond the garden walls. it is a strange thing, this one-sided situation. Strange, indeed.
Sometimes, I wonder. . . I wonder if you had died before you were born if I would feel this sense of being despondent, adrift. And I have to say, I think it would be worse.
Tonight, your papa and I had a stalemate and I am wondering how much longer we can continue to reset the chessboard of Love. And yes, I realize how totally cheesy that sounds. But you're dead and I'm still you're mother, so suck it up. Romantic relationships are not my forte. As the man sang 'Life's too short to be hangin' around.'
And yet. . . I love this man, this life, and where I am. There is so much more than just moving along and I'm only just beginning to realize how much more there is.
This weekend we went to visit your Auntie S and Uncle B. I'm in knots that Auntie S may be more ill than we think, that I might lose her. It will shift the entire paradigm of all of our worlds, not in the least mine. . . she's the kind of woman I long to be and become: grace, wit, and taste personified. You are more lucky than you never got the chance to know that she loved you. And she did. So much.
We all did. And I just keep wondering why you're not here. Maybe I'll know on Friday.