"Thank God They're Gone". It means pizza for the few remaining survivors, left behind while movers and shakers do their thing at far flung meetings, mid-life conferences and such. It is good to be left behind, to eat pizza. These parties must have EANABs. "Equally attractive non- alcoholic beverages". Such is life.
At one time there were rows of stacks of melting pizza from Tony and Alba's; this time it was New York style, there was only a thin layer, one box thick, so few of us left. TGTG is a happy day, even though the parking lot is more empty than usual.
January 23rd is also one of those days I direct myself to stop and think. I make resolutions. Crystallize my commitments. Evaluate my life and get straight about what I want to be when I grow up.
Time to have a glass of wine. Good French wine. Think about Mary. I approach the subject of my sister Mary often but always carefully, gingerly, adroitly.
On January 23rd it is more important to be direct. See how close to the fire I can get, before I conflagrate myself. Tonight is the night. I will live through this night, I think. I always have so far.
Mary did not in 1972, when she was 14. Unconventional, stubborn, goofy, prone to drama, ready to explode, pushing the envelope of her microcosm. I feel it like a great heat in my heart. Heart stopping words. She is gone. One day, Mary is a 14 year old girl, the next day gone.
But no, not quite gone. Not as long as I can make myself cry into my wine. Not as long as my nieces Mary and Margaret live to celebrate her name. I cherish a couple old photos of her and hold on to some of her childish letters. It isn't much. And why be maudlin about something so far in the past. Why take time to surrender to such saddness. I say, to honor her life, respect her death, and appreciate what I have. Precious life.
At one time there were rows of stacks of melting pizza from Tony and Alba's; this time it was New York style, there was only a thin layer, one box thick, so few of us left. TGTG is a happy day, even though the parking lot is more empty than usual.
January 23rd is also one of those days I direct myself to stop and think. I make resolutions. Crystallize my commitments. Evaluate my life and get straight about what I want to be when I grow up.
Time to have a glass of wine. Good French wine. Think about Mary. I approach the subject of my sister Mary often but always carefully, gingerly, adroitly.
On January 23rd it is more important to be direct. See how close to the fire I can get, before I conflagrate myself. Tonight is the night. I will live through this night, I think. I always have so far.
Mary did not in 1972, when she was 14. Unconventional, stubborn, goofy, prone to drama, ready to explode, pushing the envelope of her microcosm. I feel it like a great heat in my heart. Heart stopping words. She is gone. One day, Mary is a 14 year old girl, the next day gone.
But no, not quite gone. Not as long as I can make myself cry into my wine. Not as long as my nieces Mary and Margaret live to celebrate her name. I cherish a couple old photos of her and hold on to some of her childish letters. It isn't much. And why be maudlin about something so far in the past. Why take time to surrender to such saddness. I say, to honor her life, respect her death, and appreciate what I have. Precious life.
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