And then I hit a wall where I can’t do or move or make anything happen the way I want.
Daddy died, and I was privileged to be there and help make the decisions that allowed him to go on. In dignity. In his own time and way.
Shannon got schizophrenic while I was gone. I had to talk him down over the phone and convince him to take a sleeping pill so he would be better. I was 750 miles away and couldn’t be home in less than 12 hours.
It was all I could do, and I was painfully aware of how little that was and how far away I was.
He took his pill, finally, thank the Lord.
I got back home to work and home and laundry.
Life and death come and go. Laundry always remains.
I went back home again a couple of weeks ago. The “circus” had left town, as I put it. Me and Mama had time to visit. We went to see my grandma in the nursing home. We put flowers out on Daddy’s grave. And we picked out a headstone for the two of them.
I came back home to find that one of our closest friend’s mother-in-law had been killed in an auto accident. I didn’t know Jeanne, but, now that I know more about her, wish I had.
Doesn’t matter. I know her daughter and son-in-law and grandkids and great-grandkid.
Life is swirling around me to the point that being still just doesn’t seem an option.
I was on the phone with Mama earlier today, and as I was saying goodbye, I just busted out in tears. She said, “It’s okay, Jeffery. I do that sometimes, too.”
I’m going to concentrate on being still for now. I have gone and done and moved and shaken all that I can. Now it’s time to let someone else drive.
Not that someone else hasn’t been all along.
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