all the broken shit

A month might just be an all time record of blog neglect suckiness. I'm not sure what else to say. I think about writing all the time and still the words don't flow.

I've been working on a project recently, one that's taken me back to my old haunts and given me a chance to catch up with some old friends from the streets. One guy from back in the day, he had a place but then he lost it and here he is again. He tells me that this time he's going hard core, if he has to be without a place to live he's doing it all the way and he's doing it in the streets. And he's writing a book about it too.

So he sits down and pulls out a journal and some pictures and starts to share and I listen and I look and he tells me his son passed away, a son who wasn't even grown. I reach over and grab his hand for a minute, in between all the jokes there's the pain and he looks at me and says make me god for 12 minutes and I'd fix everything. All the broken shit. Done.

Today I'm at the MD, one of those mixed use places where you can get your broken arm fixed get new glasses have a baby when I hear a guy behind where I'm sitting on his phone, he's agitated and he's talking louder, he doesn't know what he's going to do and he can't take it anymore but maybe he should shut up because people will think he's a terrorist. I can't help it, hearing that in a public place, I decide I gotta turn around and look, at the very least I need to see if he's thinking near term and so I look and and I see an average guy of an average age and I see sad. I see sad and I feel sad and I turn back around. Later when I'm leaving I see him again and this time he's lecturing his kid but in a way that sounds like there's all kinds of stuff beneath, stress and worry and fear and he's out of control. I want to reach out somehow but I come up zeros. I walk by.

Then I think of my friend again, I think of him outside and smiling, writing by streetlight and I think about what he said. Make me god for 12 minutes and I'll fix everything. All the broken shit. Done. And I wish it was that easy, we could all take turns and fix our little corner of everything and pass it on.

culture clash

Four airplane flights and a week of work under my belt, I'm starting to see how this might work over the next couple of months. The pace I'd expected and the entire thing is a blessing beyond words, being able to come back to my old life while in an entirely different capacity still feels familiar. I am in an amusing position, being brought in by The Boss to work on Special Projects, an out of the box type assignment that has the regular boxers on some sort of alert. But I am happy for it not only because of the work but because the special projects are for my old community, tackling the same problems from a different angle with hopefully some success.

I join the masses on the downward plunge on the midday elevator, groups of people fleeing incubation for the street. Every day I feel near hysterical in a manageable sort of way because this whole thing is so bizarre to me and I will never understand the culture of this type of place. Once the doors open and I'm out in the sun I inevitably stop and tilt my face towards the sky. I am here and I am not here and it creates an invisible barrier, my months of jungle village stay with me as I manage not to become swayed by the creatively lit restaurants and fast cars. Cubicles. I am not here for this.

I am walking down the street when I see him, he's manning the corner with his cup and his sign and I see the folks before me swerve around him as they go. As I approach I slow down and he shakes his cup at me and I start to laugh which gets his attention so he actually looks at me and breaks out in a grin. Girl! Where you been? and I tell him and we talk for a minute about how things are still rough and how there is still hope. I want to talk to him more, I want to bring him into one of those restaurants and buy him lunch and really hear how he's doing and catch up not only on the street but the heart, the news on who has found a place and who's been locked up, the cycle of poverty hasn't skipped a beat.

I tell him as much and he is in agreement. I want to hear all about this crazy jungle thing and next time bring pictures of your kid he says so we agree that next week I'll find him and we'll go have some lunch and he smiles broadly and he gives me a hug.

And in that moment I am back all the way, amidst the suits and the blackberries and the well stocked stores and the high speed connections I found my soul and I'll savor it, as I walk away I feel more sprightly as if all of a sudden the ground I am walking on makes a little sense after all.

wherever we go you can come too

Oregon is so beautiful.  Being there this weekend in the freezing cold surrounded by forest and old friends, surprise visitors and even my brother.  The kids played and we cooked and we drank and we stayed up late and we laughed.  Oh, how we laughed.  It's easy to forget this kind of laughter, the kind that comes when you are with old friends, even if nothing important is said it all seems to matter.  

Each night at dinner one of our hosts put little cards under each plate and would call on us at random, playing Oz or maybe the guy from Love Connection.  All of the questions turned into a roundtable, each of us jumping in to answer someone else's until it was hard to hear each other speak. Some of the questions caused an avalanche of memories, each spilling onto the table and causing faraway looks and reminders of when. 

It was a good weekend.  Good for the soul.  Fuel for the journey.  More and more now I know we'll need it, these connections and also ways to say goodbye.  Everyone promises they'll visit and we hope they mean it because our door will always be open and cold beers will be waiting in the fridge. 

I've learned the hard way this week that staying connected is more than just words.  In the process of downsizing my life I reached out to a few folks I've lost touch with, only to find out one of them has died.  More than died, really.  He killed himself a few months after we last spoke and a few years ago now.  I only learned of it this weekend and I can't help but wonder what those last days were like for him and if he was lonely in the end.  I can't help but think of how brave I thought he was, a counterrevolutionary in his own right, on horseback and across borders and yet in the end none of that matters, it's what remains that keeps us and how we choose to live.  

Don't forget to send me your Just Posts by Friday and if you are so inclined, read my previous post and join us there too.

the living is easy

It was perfect, this weekend. A little more than 24 hours spent cocooned in the warmth of my oldest friends, sharing both the highs and the lows, the twistings of our hearts. We spent too much time in the pool and I'm paying for it today, my sunburned face revels in the post mortem of our connection. Our yearly ritual will be thwarted by a jungle this year, I've conned them both into meeting me halfway in some sleepy little Mexican town next summer, we'll extend the 24 hours to maybe an entire 72. I will look forward to it all year long.

And now onward, in a few short days a whole other sort of giddyness will commence, more late nights and dearly missed friends, am counting the hours till I can sip mojitos next to you in the dark. But in between J and I will revel in another sort of loveliness, one where our child is safely swaddled at her grandparents and we will enjoy a few quiet and glorious summer nights to ourselves. Can you see my beaming face? Because it's beaming all the way from here.

Oh, and I almost forgot, I've got a new review up about environmentally friendly toothbrushes over here. Who doesn't love their teeth and our planet? Go see for yourself.

me and julio down by the schoolyard

Summer nights we walk. We sometimes get a coffee or walk around the park. Lately we've been sitting in the bleachers of neighborhood softball games. M loves it, there are usually other kids on the grass and they all run around and J and I sit and watch people we do not know hit the ball well and not so well. Tonight was perfect, a nice breeze and a rousing game. The umpire took a softball in the groin and the players and fans alike all started cracking up. What is it about grown men getting hit in the nuts that makes everyone laugh, I wonder and yet it's true, we are all 12 years old.

M and I are headed off for a girls weekend of sorts, two girls on a plane and then my baby goes to my parents and I get to spend a weekend with my two best friends, women I see just once a year. We plan this weekend all year long, the one time all three of us are in the same country. This year we've decided to sit poolside and not lift a finger all weekend long. We'll catch up on the politics in the Middle East and who has travelled where and how long our hair has grown, one friend comes from Syria and the other has amusingly turned into something of a socialite so her house is like a fancy spa. But she's good to us and she'll pretend not to notice when we use all her fancy face cream on our legs and put our dirty feet on her expensive couch just like we always do because again no matter how old we get we are all still 12 years old.

collecting some tokens

Even though I've been blogging for two years I've only met one blogger socially outside of last year's BlogHer frenzy. While I've fallen insanely in love with my BlogHer peeps, none of them live anywhere near me so we've not seen each other since and it's probably what I'm most looking forward to this July. (Yes, I'm talking about you so you better get ready for me to climb all over you with giddy joy). So imagine my happiness when the lovely Alejna from collecting tokens fame emailed me to say she'd be in California and hey, did I want to get together?

So we had the pleasure of having Alejna and her family over for dinner and they were kind enough to drive a rather long distance to get here. We ate and laughed and talked and got to watch our daughters play and our partners connect. The evening stretched out, two women and their mates and daughters and it was sweet and lovely and grounding and good. We had the pleasure of discovering each other face to face and she is every bit as beautiful and witty and brilliant as she is on her blog. And she makes pregancy look damn good too. My only sadness is that they live on the other side of the country because I'd love to do it again next week.

And it made me all the more excited for BlogHer, to see old friends from last year and to get to have the chance to meet so many new ones. Three weeks to go and I can barely wait. Just barely. Dude.

close encounters

As I walk in he says I've been waiting for you for at least an hour and looks at his wrist at a watch that isn't there. I don't know this guy so I say is that so, what for? He smiles. I've got dinner ready, anything you want. Anything? He nods. I stop for a minute playing along. Fried chicken, I say. I want some fried chicken. He says Popeye's or KFC? I laugh. You mean you aren't cooking it yourself? Let me in that kitchen girl, I'll cook you some right now. I'm late but I'm grinning. It feels good here tonight.

My meeting runs over and it's getting dark. I'm not usually here this late and I leave the room and find five or ten dudes crashed out in the hall. It's busy tonight and we've run out of beds so now all we've got is the floor. I step gingerly over a sleeping man and look at another, staring off into space, he's wearing a robe, a red one and it looks soft. A guy comes around the corner, an old timer, he's grizzly and he says I'm home. I've had a long day and I missed dinner. I'm hungry. Can I get dinner? And I don't want a sandwich neither. I'm not sure of the drill so I ask around and figure out where to find the plates we hold back for folks who show up late. I track one down and hand it to him. Heat it up a little more for me, will you? Hot as you can. I trek back to the microwave and find him sitting pretty on a chair. I hand him his plate and he smiles. Thanks little lady, this is all an old man needs at the end of day, food and a place to rest my legs.

It's even later now and I need to go home. I'm heading to my car and I see one of the original joes, a guy I've known on and off for 10 years and haven't seen in awhile. Where the hell have you been I say smiling and grab his arm. He gives me a look and the look says jail. Ah, and now you are back and starting over again. He smiles. Yeah, but this time it's gonna be different.

I've been busy this week and not visiting as much as I like. I miss you guys. And it's not too late to send me your Just Posts, you have until Saturday to email me at girlplustwo(at)yahoo(dot)com. The roundtable will be alive and kicking come Tuesday.

the best day

We had the whole day. Our friends have been gone for a year, living abroad. We've missed them so. They were coming into town and we met in a little dive bar, a place we'd arranged a month ago without reconfirming just like the time we met them in Thailand and that other time in Guatemala. It's just what we do.

We had the whole day. Mojitos and beer, we talked and laughed and talked and laughed. They are pregnant, a blindingly new and delicious discovery. We walked and walked through the worst parts of the city that are also the best, the smell and the graffiti, the alleys and the noise. We ate pub food and later we ate again high up on a roof with the ocean and the wind and the sun, we talked and we laughed and we talked and laughed.

We parted ways after the sun set, we could have talked for hours more. They'll head back to their home abroad, we won't see them till long after the baby is born which is a long time from now. I miss them already. But it was perfect.

wet and shiny and full of illusion

I've been busier than a one legged girl in an ass kicking contest. See, it's raining and it's raining a lot. California doesn't quite know how to handle an actual storm so there are flash floods and power outages, downed trees and accidents everywhere. It's our genetics to fail at weather. You northerners and easterners, you can laugh all you want. But I wear flip flops year round, so mock me, I can take it. But I digress.

A storm like this is hard on folks with no place to sleep so we started working overtime to open projects for additional hours and larger numbers. Processes that require getting government types here to plead our case to government types farther up the food chain hoping it will eventually trickle back down to us. These good people went the distance for us over the past 48 hours and amidst middle of the night calls and incredible feats of teamwork we ended up successfully offering additional safety nets for folks opened on a dime. Feeling victorious last night I headed over to a church where more good people opened their doors for our makeshift operations. I arrived right before mealtime where several church members were preparing to open the food line, a line with maybe fifty or more already at attention between the piles of bedding on the floor. A woman holding a spatula was calling for attention to bless the meal. Immediately our folks, hungry and probably tired of that line started that hushed yet really loud sort of whispering shut up, shut up. they are saying grace, shut the fuck up I heard one guy say and head bowed I couldn't help laughing. The meal was blessed to a resounding AMEN and a round of applause and in no time at all everyone had a hot meal.

It's easy to delude oneself in those moments, spirits are high and the mood is good. It's easy to overlook the tragedy, that each of these people have no place to go and all the food in the world doesn't change that for a minute. I spot a little girl, maybe three or four, her plate piled high. Her hair is a mess and I am temporarily broken. She looks up and smiles. I crack a bit on the inside but also know it's the best she'll do tonight. An old timer, a guy I haven't seen all season comes up. girl, look at you. where you been? where have you been, old man, I haven't seen you all year. He looks at me then away. I think I know. Ah, what for this time around? A fight. I can't seem to help it. It was only for a few months. He has a few less teeth than I remember but a bit more weight, three hots and a cot have some benefits. He stands close, eavesdropping as I am meeting with a couple of folks strategizing how to transport folks in the morning to our new spot, one they can stay in all day and out of the cold. He's smiling when I am done. You a big shot now, girl? Sitting at the big table? I smile and shrug. But you are still here. You can take the girl outta the shelter but you can't take the shelter outta the girl. Something like that, I say, I like this guy and I've liked him for a long time, his bullshit included. He asks for a hug and I give him one, hard and look him in the eyes. Anytime you want to change things, J, you let me know. Too many years of this shit will kill you. I know, he replies. But it's all I know. You still married? I smile at him again, some things never change no matter how much hard living comes in between.

eight years old

Eight years ago this month I helped deliver a baby, the first birthing I'd ever been a part of. The mom was living where I was working with her two children and one on the way. She was an amazing woman, she'd left a very difficult situation and was navigating life on her own with her kids, in poverty and alone and yet with extraordinary grace. She'd asked me to be present at the birth because there was no one else and I said yes because she asked and because there was no one else.

We never spent any time preparing for the birth, and in my ignorance I hadn't thought to ask what sort of help she wanted because to be honest she'd asked for nothing other than my presence. Now that I know what I know I'd have handled it differently but that was then and this is now and if I could go back in time I certainly would. She went into labor in the middle of the night and I went to be with her and 10 or so hours later she gave birth and I was there for all of it and I swore off ever having a baby and was completely humbled all at the same time. I remember going home from the hospital and sobbing for hours, great buckets of tears from exhaustion and marvel and admiration and fear. She soon moved out with her beautiful children into her own home and a new life. She stayed in touch for awhile, a bond had formed between us during the birth, something sacred and quiet that we never much discussed.

She called me on Xmas Eve, a few years have passed since we'd spoke and no news is good news, being forgotten is a good thing in the work I'm in. But she was in trouble for the first time in a long time, her housing had fallen apart and she was in a bad spot, she and her kids were in a motel. Time was of the essence because nothing sucks up your money faster than a nightly motel and I could hear it in her voice I know it's been awhile but I hope you remember me, you helped deliver my baby eight years ago and I need your help one more time. On Xmas I connected her with a colleague who I knew could help and that good soul came through yesterday and my old friend can move her children into her new home today. So I sat up late last night remembering for the first time in a long time the gift she gave me way back when as she showed me a new kind of courage, bravely birthing her child with love and with grace, alone with no visitors or flowers in a cold hospital room and not much more than a stranger beside her holding her hand as she pushed.

the friendly skies

There is nothing quite like being kidless for two days in the company of the women who knew you when and love you anyways and more. We ate way too many tacos, drank a couple of mojitos and talked ourselves silly. It was a lovely, lovely time. And I did mention my blog and after getting over the snickers and misunderstandings about what a blog is, (because it's NOT a creepy desperate place where weirdos congregate) but rather a lovely intentional community where I've met and come to adore dozens and dozens of like minded, brilliant, amazing people I found it well received and after being assaulted with many questions we were able to move onto other topics. I bragged a bit about all of you and it's fascinating because when you stop to think about how much your mind has been expanded by this place it's clear that is it something to be very proud and fiercely protective of. And I am.

I returned today sans child (M is staying at the grands for a few more days). My flight was cancelled at the last minute (bastards) so after a three hour walkabout I finally flew home. We all have airport stories now, because the absurdity of plastic bags and matches and little bottles of goo are all a part of our bizarre domestic travel and I like everyone else silently tolerate and amuse myself with the nonsense but sometimes it's still a bit too much. Like today when two security guards were searching a teenage girl in a wheelchair. A girl with Down's Syndrome who was wailing a gutteral wail while her mother held her hand and tried to calm her as they searched all around her body. Things like that push the envelope of absurdity because nothing screams National Terrorist Threat like a young girl with DS in a wheelchair.

I missed you all. Can't wait to come around and see what's what.

bookends

M and I are off on an adventure. J will soon drop us at the airport and we'll fly south where M will spend a week at her grandparents in her own mini version of Older Americans Idolize Me and I will get to spend two days with two of my closest friends in the world. We are only together once a year, with N living in Syria trips home are infrequent. So we covet these yearly sabbaticals, these 48 hours of freedom and release and connection.

We will put on our sweats and go to our favorite taco stands and head back to E's house and eat and laugh and cry and love. We will hold each other and tease each other and come clean on some things. We will sleep late and swap books and talk about our children. We will remind each other of our youth and push each other forward. We'll go for long walks and gawk at good looking men just like we have done for the last 20 years. We will ooh and aah and say what we mean.

These are my sisters.

And they don't know about my blog. The last time we were together this was new and I hadn't yet met most if not all of you. How one puts that into words is daunting and we'll see if I spill the goods or not, if I can find the words to explain how extraordinary this place is and why I love it so. But either way, I won't be back for a few days.

Delicious weekend, all.

bob

Seeing those women a couple days ago reminded me of an old friend. Bob came to us about eight years ago while receiving chemotherapy at a local hospital. He was in his seventies when I met him, a dapper and slightly wizened man with thinning white hair and excellent posture. He was staying in the nightly program but after awhile we were able to guarantee him a regular bed for a few months.

Time rolled by. Every morning I'd go to work and see Bob sitting out front with a hello young lady as I walked past. Bob never complained, back and forth to the hospital for treatment on the bus, recovering from the chemo at the shelter and never once did I hear him say one cross word.

After a period of time he achieved a sort of status; he'd counsel the young guys about how to navigate the programs, how to stay out of trouble, who could get what done in the easiest way. He was always charming; would notice if I wore something new, or if we'd made some sort of minor change to the facility. He had a keen eye and would offer suggestions in an easy way that made everyone want to take him seriously. He put effort into his appearance; his clothes were old and worn but always clean, a smart hat perched on his head. He'd carry chewing gum for the ladies.

After some time we noticed Bob getting sicker. Frail, a bit of a stoop to his back. The nurse on site told us that things were declining, that he probably didn't have much more time. She started talking to him about hospice and he refused to hear it. This is my home, he'd say. This is where I live. You are my family. This is where I live.

No one had the heart to tell him anything different; so instead we broke our own rules and kept him in the program, rationalizing it was the right thing to do. That no one could care for him better than we could. True or not, we did our best.

As he continued to decline, a wheelchair replacing the walker that had replaced the cane; I felt more compelled than ever to see if there was anything more we could do. He claimed to have two sons, but didn't want them to know he was dying. Years had passed and he said he'd done some things wrong. He didn't want to bother them and refused to let us intervene. His pride and decorum was part of who he was and there was no swaying him. I tried hard to convince him but he wouldn't budge. I can honestly say I loved him as I loved my own grandfather. I still do.

He kept getting sicker. The doctors decided there was nothing else they could do. He couldn't eat, had trouble sleeping. The nurse arranged for hospice care, she too cared deeply for him and pulled strings to find him a bed. I was with the nurse when she told him about the hospice bed; and it's the only time I ever saw him get angry. No. Please don't make me go. This is my home. I live HERE with all of you.

We were all crying that day, the day we all realized he needed more than we could possibly offer, even after the meals we brought to his bed, the other men assisting him in the bathroom. He needed around the clock care. We were never sure if he'd be alive when we got to work.

Bob moved into hospice and I visited him there the next day. He said he was left lying in bed since he arrived, that it was a horrible place to be. I hate it here. Please take me back home to the shelter. I helped him up and wheeled him out into the sun. We talked again about the past, about his life, I told him I loved him. He said it was the last time I would see him, he didn't want to live in this place, without us and his home he didn't want to live.

Bob died the next day. The nursing home called us and I went with another person to say goodbye. I smoothed what was left of his hair, we kissed his brow and tucked the blanket around his feet. I cried like a baby, my co-worker and I clutching each other sobbing in the middle of the nursing home.

We held a memorial service for him at the shelter and we made sure his remains (in a pauper's burial) were given a name and a space at a local cemetery. I needed to make sure he was remembered somehow, and at the time that meant a lot to me. But I know now it meant little, because he lives in my heart. He'll always share a room there.

Seeing those women reminded me of Bob, and the majesty of an old man who ended his long life in a homeless shelter; changing our lives. I hope he knows how blessed I was to know him, how his example, his quiet dignity, changed me forever.

It's time for our fifth Just Post Roundtable. If you have a post of yours or one you've appreciated that was written by someone else, please send them my way to girlplustwo (at) yahoo(dot) com by May 7th and I'll send you the button. Go on. It's good for the soul.

We'll link all posts and anyone who refers one (or more) in our Just Post Roundtable on the 10th. If this is new to you, please feel free to check it out here or at the JP buttons to your right.

son of the wave

Two years ago one of my closest friends was vacationing on the coast of Sri Lanka with her husband and 20 month old son. She was pregnant at the time.

Her husband had just come back to their bungalow after some morning surfing. She was just finishing changing her son's diaper when the water started coming in the door.

At first they didn't know what was going on. But as the moments passed the water still kept coming. Her husband unplugged the TV as they headed towards the back of the bungalow into the attached bathroom.

The water kept filling up, to their knees, their waists, their shoulders. In those moments they stood transfixed, their son above their heads, not sure what was happening. By the grace of god the weight of the water caused the bungalow to creak and shift and finally break apart. The last thing my friend remembers saying is You hang onto me, and I'll hang onto him. Don't let go.

And they were swept under water. She doesn't know how long they were under, but she does know that as the water receded she had no idea if her son was alive. Her husband had managed to grab the end of a clothesline, and that tiny cord held tight and kept them from being pulled into the sea.

When they all came up for air, my friend didn't think her son was breathing. Immediately afterwards he coughed up ocean and started crying. Save for some bumps and bruises, he was fine. In his tiny hand was his security blanket. He held onto it the whole time - something that brings tears to my eyes even now. Everyone had a job to do, to hold on, and he did his part. Her husband was miraculously fine as well. She didn't fare as well - part of her foot was missing, and her leg had a gash running from thigh to shin.

There was little time to waste. Everyone who was still on land was running, running, running into the jungle, onto rooftops, into trees. Some local villagers were assisting my friend - she couldn't run and her husband had the baby, but somehow they managed to scramble to higher ground before the next wave hit.

They stayed up on the hill for a long time. There were many gathered there and it sounded like everyone was in a state of disbelief. My friend needed medical attention, so after the second wave receded and they made their way to the nearest hospital. She was loaded onto a stretcher with three other women. She was given injections with unknown medicines and was taken for emergency surgery. This was a horrible place - dirty, chaotic, and filled with wounded and those who had died.

My friend's husband realized staying there was a very bad idea so he got on the phone and called the US embassy. Tranport to the main hospital in Colombo was arranged. This is all a blur to them so they don't completely recall exactly how it all worked out, instead grateful that it did.
When I first heard the news about the tsunami, I broke down crying. I knew where my friend was, and her deep love of the water, so I knew she could only have been in the thick of it. We waited for hours until her parents got a call from the embassy. They are alive was all they were told.

While I was watching the news and biting my nails my friends were busy surviving. They were evacuated with other Americans to the capital and to the main hospital. My friend had two more surgeries. They determined the baby was still alive. They had no money, no I.D, no diapers or clothes. My friend's husband had to beg for change to call home. They had no place to sleep, and nothing to eat.

Embassy workers took my friend's son into their home for a couple of nights. They had no choice but to hand over their son to strangers because they had no way to care for him in those two days - my friend was in and out of surgery and her husband needed to be with her. They were given diapers and clothing. People offered food. Those small graces helped a lot but it was not lost on them that they were the lucky ones - first for surviving, and second for being Americans. Things were getting done. Hundreds of thousands of others were not as lucky, some because of their citizenship, others because of their economic status. Others never even had a chance.

It took another week to get emergency passports and the money they needed to get out of the country. I was able to reach her in her hospital room during this time. I could tell she was in shock, her voice detached and small when it is usually strong and engaged. We cried together. I offered to come and she said no, that she just wanted to get out and go home. It took several more surgeries and the better part of a year for my friend to heal.

She gave birth 5 months later to a healthy baby boy. His middle name is Dylan, which in a translation I forget means son of the wave.

This didn't happen to me. And I am doing my best not to get into the gruesome details of what my friend saw and heard and endured. Because this is a post about survival, and about love, and about facing what life hands you and doing everything you can to stay afloat.

My friend's physical scars are mostly healed now. She still can't go to the beach, and can't celebrate her son's birthday without being gripped by panic and grief. She wonders why it is taking so long for the emotional trauma to heal, but is coming to terms with the notion that some things might never go away, and that she can live with that too. She calls me in those moments; she lives on the other side of the world so her night is my day, and I am here if she needs someone to listen. Someone who can never understand but who can hold the other end of the phone while she cries and then berates herself for not being stronger and will tell her to knock it off. Nicer words, maybe, but I can't bear her not tolerating her own grief. She has a right to it, god knows she's earned it. These things take time.

I am not sure I've ever known anyone braver. I always knew she was a warrior, but I didn't know she was a hero. If I am only ever half the woman she is, it's more than enough.

She doesn't read my blog, but I will share this post with her. I want her to know I remember two years ago when the world gasped for air. I honor her for her survival and grace and as she likes to call it, her bit of good luck.