7 A.M.

Sitting, listening, tears streaming.

I received a lovely box in the mail yesterday from my Brooklyn boys. Among the gift items was a CD/DVD of Simon & Garfunkel (one of my very favorites!). I decided to let it keep Milton and me company this morning.

It takes me back to Easter Sunday, March 29, 1970.  I'm three months pregnant and staying with my parents on the farm. My husband of 10 months is in basic training outside of Chicago. I work at the hospital in a small city, about 10 miles away. There are no cell phones and we only get three TV stations - a few radio stations. I'm off work and enjoying my holiday with family. A call goes out in the night for all hospital staff to come help. I'm unaware and can't respond. The next morning, we learn that there was a terrible fire in town and five volunteer firemen are dead, 27 people injured with 12 admitted to the small hospital. Even in New York, Chicago, L.A., Paris, or any huge city you can think of, this would be front page news. Imagine a population of 8,000. Everyone in the town and surrounding area is either friend or relative, relative of a friend, friend of a relative, works with, goes to church with, or had their life/home saved by one of these killed.

Within the next few days, the fallen were to be eulogized, farewells given and put to rest. Several of the injured remained in the hospital. It was planned to have the audio broadcast on the public address system at the hospital. My mom was working that day and I came in for the 3-11 shift. I was able to ignore the service in the guise of busyness (Didn't want to cry at work!) Until the song. S & G in their pure, melodic harmonies singing, "Bridge Over Troubled Water".

I expounded a bit about the power of music to vividly refresh a moment in time in my post 'The Song Remembering When'. Thus the tears streaming at 7 A.M. I'm back there, back then, trying not to cry, not succeeding, feeling the anguish, feeling the sorrow of the above mentioned people, feeling my own sadness at the loss of so many, so young, so dedicated, from all walks of life, brought together in death by their mutual commitment to life.

I'll never forget. No one should.

*David Lee Rotten Note: Check out the amazing Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water performance that I was lucky to see LIVE at the 25th ANNIVERSARY ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME CONCERT- Madison Square Garden, NYC - October 29&30, 2009

My paternal grandfather died in his early 50's when I was three month old. We never talked about death, but somehow I always knew my dad thought he would die young as well. When I was a kid, 50 seemed very old, so it never worried me.

When I married and had children, I vaguely thought I might die young; leave my kids without a mom. I tried not to think about it-made me sad for them. The children grew up, I didn't die and leave them without a mom, and my dad lived to be 91.

I've made the statement that I always thought I'd die young, but it's too late for that now. However, as I get older, I realize young isn't so cut and dried. Doesn't have to be 20's, 30's or 40's.

I recently found out that a childhood friend and classmate has terminal cancer. She was always so fun and full of life, friendly and kind. She's too young. She should have more time.

I've only seen her a few times over the years, but I like knowing she's in the world. I won't be happy when she's not.

I'm looking back over my self-therapy writings. A lot of my sadness and heartache came out in poetic form.

I didn't purposely set out to relate and examine my angst in verse, sometimes it just happened.

I wrote this about two months post-relationship and shortly after I became aware of the fact that it didn't have
to be over in his opinion. That made things even harder for me. I've never had to determine to end a relationship
with someone I still love.  If I 'broke up' with a boy, it was because I didn't like him anymore. If he 'broke' up with me, he didn't like me anymore.

I might still love or care for him, but no chance of reconciliation.

When my marriage ended, the love had been long deadened. No conflicting feelings or yearning for that person.

Mostly fear and anxiety regarding the new life to come.

So this has been a whole new experience knowing he isn't good for me and loving him anyway.

I miss you-has to be over.
No fear, no anxiety, I know it's over.
Just sadness and yearning.
The occasional tear.

Thinking of you less and less.
Sometimes an hour or two.
Happy for that.
The occasional smile.

So many things I love about you.
And not for the usual reasons.
I love who you aren't.
I love what you don't.
I love what you won't.
Just can't love what you do and who.

I want you-has to be over.
No touch, no closeness, I know it's over.
Just craving and feeling.
The occasional heat.

Could have you-has to be over.
Can't share, So-I know it's over.
Just mourning and grieving.
And occasional healing.  

Getting better everyday.
It's over.

Yearning never stops.
It's over.

Missing his touch.
Over.

Try to ignore and just go on. Tell myself I'm lucky.
Dodging that bullet!

But once in awhile, just once in awhile.
I'm there in my head.

I breathe him in, my mouth on him, his mouth on me.
So close behind him, so close behind me.
Moving against him, flush from our dance.
He's kneeling over me-stretching my limb, mouth warm and wet.
On my toes, foot, leg.
More sensual, more moving,
Than anything I've known.

Never will be another him for me.

How could thirteen years have passed since 9/11? We all remember where we were, what we were doing, how we found out. We were unable to stop watching. We saw the second plane hitting the tower. We knew then that it couldn't have been an accident.

Most of us didn't know any of the victims, had never been to New York or D.C. or the field in Pennsylvania. But we cried and sobbed and mourned and grieved. They were people; men, women, children, unborn babies. Our people from our towns, our cities, our land, our world.

All humanity joined in sorrow. Unable to grasp the depth of hatred, the mindset of those whose joy and salvation is murder. Who serve a god rewarding the slaughter of 'innocents' and self.

I was able to visit the 9/11 memorial site several times during my N.Y. city visit. Even with the crowds present, it feels peaceful and solemn. Voices hushed, the soothing sounds and sight of rushing water. The beauty and simplicity of the names cut into the bronze plates. Eleven with the added phrase; "and her unborn child".

So much thought and care has gone into arranging the 2,983 names. Originally, they were to be randomly placed. Somehow developing the concept of "meaningful adjacencies", they paired co-workers, companies, organization affiliates, friends, relatives and recovery proximity. Over 1200 family requests were received and addressed.

As we stood by the south tower site, we noticed kids touching the water, feeling it's coolness. Our first thought-disapproval. Then my daughter suggested putting our hands in so "our skin cells will be part of the ever-flowing water and it will be part of us." With fingers immersed; we experienced immediate tears and emotional connection.  Nothing magical or mystical, just honoring and mourning the dead, and empathizing with families and friends who ever struggle with their loss.

In great or small ways we all do.

When did it become unacceptable to mourn or grieve for more than a little while and in more than a quiet way over anything-anyone? Buck-up and go on.

We say, "She's taking it so hard." Why-because she cried? Then we say, "She's holding up so well." Why-because she didn't?

Have you ever seen foreign people on television who've lost a loved one? They scream and cry and get loud and maybe even beat their chest or fall prostrate onto the ground. They don't shed a civilized tear, take a Xanax and go on. They aren't 'holding up'. They aren't quiet and sad and holding it all inside with a brave, noble face. They experience their grief and their pain.

They make a scene.

When my mother died, I did the quiet tears, the 'normal' behaviors, the usual. Until one day I began screaming in my car. I couldn't scream loud enough or long enough. Even though I was alone, I was embarrassed and soon stopped. Never did that again.

It took seven years for the pall death had cast to disappear. I only realized it was a pervasive presence when it was gone. What if I hadn't kept it all in, hadn't 'held up' so well, hadn't masked the sorrow, hidden the grief? Would I have healed more quickly if I hadn't pretended all those years?

Why do we want everyone to get over everything so quickly? We get annoyed and impatient and start withdrawing when someone doesn't just "move on" with their lives after a great loss.

I'm impatient with myself right now because I should just get over that man. I can tell, when I occasionally speak of him, that some others agree. But should our loved ones be that disposable? Should I think that little of a seven year relationship and the one I gave my heart to? Should I disparage my sorrow and my tears because, after all, it's been over five months?

My best friend's son died a little over a year ago. I can't even fathom losing a child! The grief sites she visits say it's worse the second and third years after the loss of a loved one. My first thought was, "People want you to be over it after a year." You feel the withdrawal and lack of response and support. So you don't talk about it. You internalize your grief. You're alone with it.

There's an expression I've heard, "A problem shared is a problem halved." Maybe if it was acceptable to 'share our grief' and keep on sharing, it wouldn't turn inward and grow depression, alienation, introversion and more grief.

I need to listen to my own grief and accept it. I need to listen to others' grief and accept it.

                                                         WE ALL DO.

It's been five months without that man. Most days I'm happy. Today the car wouldn't start. Called
AAA. They sent a little boy who knew the basics but not much more. He got me started and I went to
an auto parts store. "It's not your battery, ma'am." Great! Could happen again-who knows. Stopped 
at Staples and bought a computer chair. Tears just came on the way home. I needed to sort through 
my feelings and out came this poem. My daughter read it and said it reminded her of Dr Seuss.

Why am I surprised,
By this sadness and tears?
I've grieved for so many,
For so many years.

I know there are good days,
I know there are bad.
So why the surprise,
That I'm feeling so sad?

I know by heart,
How grief comes and goes.
Some days you feel happy,
Right down to your toes.

Some days you don't think,
You'll be normal again.
But tomorrow will come,
And it eases the pain.

So I'll just cry,
And I'll welcome the tears.
The warm, cleansing rain,
Falling into my ears.

I'll know they're God's taxies,
To cleanse away sorrow.
And when I wake up,
It will be tomorrow.

Be careful what you wish for,
I've always heard it said.
"Don't want a relationship," I murmured,
As I took him to my bed.

Should've told him, "I'm afraid
to love and try to trust."
I didn't really know my heart,
Thought lust would be enough.

I thought there was another,
He was seeing at the start.
Decided I could handle it,
Wouldn't break my heart.

I didn't know that we would be
Together for so long.
The weeks and months turned into years,
Love for him grew strong.

Suddenly I started feeling
Anxious and alone.
Panic and depression,
The cause I thought unknown.

Til I read those words,
That in a moment, changed my life.
She said I didn't know her,
But she was his ex-wife.

He'd called her a few weeks ago,
Told her we were through.
Said that he would pick her up,
In an hour or two.

She stayed the night several times,
Shared our common bed.
Somehow she knew I was still there,
Despite what he had said.

So she wrote and sent the letter,
That cut me to the core.
That hurt my heart and ended us,
We will be no more. 

PHOTO: Mama Lee Rotten aka Kathy (Johnson) Brooks and her sister Penny (Johnson) Fenton, 1956 or 57