No Past Tense

Dear Pepsi,

I know, it has been a while since I have written to you; however, not a day goes by without me talking to you or looking through your picture book. I still tear up at the mention of your name or when people express their sympathy for your passing. What a strange way to describe death - passing. You have not passed at all. There is no past tense when it comes to you. I touch your collar that drapes over the corner of my easel and run my fingers over your pink harness that hangs on the hook in the half bath. I talk to Pearl about you every day. I see you in the corner of every room, reach for you on the couch and in bed at night. Being with your sisters brings me joy and lifts my heart; however, your absence has created a permanent hole that will never be filled. Last week I was in California with your biological brother Aslan, which was some comfort since you two look so much alike; however, your personalities are so different. Aslan came to us 4 years ago as a surrender, his gratitude and chill are a sharp contrast to your diva-ness and sense of entitlement. I wrapped my arms around him several times day whispering I love you Peps' Bother.

Aslan and Mom

I turned 60 a week ago. It was a bittersweet occasion/celebration. I traveled to California since 60 is a milestone birthday and wanted to be with Rena and Jonathan. It rained almost non stop for the entire week save the last day. I felt off - tired, cold, sad, and a bit lost. I missed Pearl and Pandy. I thought about you a lot since your life with us began in that house. I wanted to write but the space wouldn't hold me. I had so may years in that house when I felt myself bursting at the seams. I was a young mom, dazed and confused, painting and writing my way down the hallway on a 30 ft scroll I tacked to the wall. My life was divided into several pieces and identities - mother, artist, social worker. By the time you arrived on the scene I thought I had sewed it up with my kids off to college and law school. I had a plan to buy a condo in Oakland and downsize, travel more and focus on my art. You unraveled all that when I fell in love with you at first sight. I continued to travel for my annual sojourns to Greece and Europe to paint; however, you were my reason to come home. Then came Pearl, and eventually Pandy when we lived in Austin. Would life have been simpler if I refused Jonathan's request for a dog? Of course, but how could it even be considered better without you my darling girl? Opening our hearts to love is always a risk, yet what you gave me all these years was well worth the freedom I gave up. I would do it all over again gladly given the chance. 

Pepsi the Diva

I have continued to paint the Monologue of Grief series. It is an abstract dialog unrestrained by form, words or concrete concepts. I dive in the colors led by emotion. It has to be abstract because I cannot get my arms around the fact that you were here and then gone, so quickly and unexpectedly. I can talk about the chronology of events or even how I feel, which typically ends with tears streaming down my face, even in the grocery store with strangers attempting to comfort me, but it still makes no sense. I talked to Chuck the other day and we floated the idea of how this really belongs in a another dimension, where the concept of death and grief might be able to be discussed with more clarity but in this part of the earth and consciousness we are at a loss for description or comprehension. I have been writing to you since the cancer diagnosis and still after your death. Pepsi you are here in some form or the other, I just don't know how it translates to where my body currently resides. I haven't touched you there yet but I want to. I write you letters on this blog, apply thick layers of paint to paper, talk out loud to you daily, and reach for you in empty spaces. When the world hurts me you are not there to cushion the blow. In fact your death has sharpened my edges. I measure everything against the gravity of your loss, so you can imagine how that has played out. I want less and see little point in enduring foolishness. Time is limited, people can leave in a flash and there is less reason to extend myself unless it really matters. If there is a past tense of Pepsi, then that is the extent of it, otherwise you are very much in my here and now in this dimension and any other.  So you will keep hearing from me.

Love and miss you baby girl,

Mom

Monologue of Grief Series