Bad things happened in Hobby Lobby yesterday. I needed snowflakes for my Christmas books but first I needed to return a marker pad that wasn't as bleed proof as claimed. One bad thing turned into two and three and four before I made a righteous exit through the door. After being treated like a lying thief I was still bent on getting those embellishments for my gifts, so I made a bee line to the paper crafts section. Then I came to my senses and went to Michael's. I will not spend my money where I am treated less than.
I made a birthday card the day before in the nick of time. By that I mean before midnight. I had to get it signed and delivered by e-mail while the day still belonged to the intended. Her response was worth the rush. You never know how much a thing means to someone until you stop giving it.
Before that, and after the ugly shopping experience, I got some pen friend Love. JC waved it around and pronounced it "Good mail!" before handing it over. I am grateful because God knows I need all the Love I can get. Thank you, Anna, for my fourth Christmas card. My plan was to stop sharing at three. It was not meant to be. All in all I'm quite taken with that mail box. It's topped with fresh snow, there's a lovely bird perched above, and holly to remind me that even pretty little things can prick.
I imagine there's mail inside (which signals Hope) waiting to be delivered to someone who needs a heart-felt touch. Which reminds me . . . I stayed up late last night to watch "Angela's Ashes." The book is one of the best ever written and it's full of reminders that there is life after suffering. Frankie reminded me of another endearing trio: The father, the son, and the holy toast. The movie was about as good as a story brought to movieland ever gets. Some of us still miss you Frank McCourt.
Which brings me to missing Simon. I'm learning to miss him. I gave the okay for him to go peacefully a little over an hour after I saw him for the last time. The call came around 9:15 this morning. I thought it was the call to take him home. Were there missed clues? He's been in the hospital since Monday morning. Okay. I'm crying again and I only stopped a little while ago! The tears stopped because my eyes are so swollen they're turning inside out. Downside up? And I'm dehydrated. They wouldn't let me stay to comfort him during his passage.
There was a small moment of comfort in this--shining like a beacon in the evening. A single white flower twined around thorns sums up how grief feels. My guilt strangles me. I didn't know he was sick. He spiraled down to nothing in four days. My own pain shut me off from clues to his suffering, yet when I noticed the changes . . . I failed him. I hate myself. I sat outside in the dark damp evening until it was too dark to explain sitting on a wet patio chair under the willow. Minuet cries for him day and night. I can't stand it. So I crept downstairs and into the dusk to escape. Her cries are louder than the thickness of a window pane meant to be a barrier between her grief and mine.
At the vet's someone had erected a memorial for a cat that passed. Someone wrote "If love could have saved him he would still be alive." Who knew that was another missed sign? Dr. A told me Simon might live another fifteen years the last time I took him in for a check-up. His cat was twenty-five then. The cat that couldn't be saved with love was thirty. I took Simon's longevity for granted since he and Minuet are house cats. Now I sit in the dark with grief, and God for comfort.
I don't know what to say. I simply have to go away for now. Be well.