Letting go of any friendship is difficult, even one that has become rancid.
An old friend of mine no longer sees me in a positive light. The sparkling eyes from the laughter that my friendship once brought is gone. My presence is no longer acknowledged or welcome. No smiles. No willingness to hug or be hugged. Decades ago, that was not the case. Decades.
To be condemned for my weaknesses while neglecting to recognize and embrace my strengths causes me pain. It angers me as well, since it has taken years for me to see myself as the good and loving person that I am, to see all the beauty that I bring to this world and to those whose lives I touch.
Given the circumstances, it is no wonder that we are no longer able to bring out the best in each other. I mourn the loss nonetheless.
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Friday, November 15, 2024
Monday, January 12, 2009
Ballerina Carla
During my early college days in the mid-1970s, there were several young ladies who I was privileged enough to have as my friends. The one who most stands out in my memory, however, is Carla.
To me, Carla was magical. Humble, kind, supportive and loving, she quickly found a special place in my heart where she still resides. She treated me as if she were my big sister and helped me through a tumultuous period in my life.
Carla had been an aspiring dancer and understood loss. A car accident injured her back so severely that it ended her dreams of being a dancer. The physical injury also left lasting emotional scars along with it.
Little did I know --- or, perhaps more aptly put, what I failed to consider --- was that my birthday gift to her would open those scars to such a degree that her wounds would be made fresh again, causing her to recoil from me in a flood of tears and flee from the gaze of her other birthday guests. How could I have been so blind?
It was a poem that inflicted so much pain. My poem, a birthday poem, which I wrote for her and her alone. A special poem, a sonnet, each line starting with a letter that formed the words, "Ballerina Carla." So thoughtful, so personal --- too personal, and ultimately, thoughtless.
The poem is still in my possession, safely tucked away where it can cause no further damage. Only the last two lines echo clearly in my mind.
The Perils of Poetry - first in a series.
To me, Carla was magical. Humble, kind, supportive and loving, she quickly found a special place in my heart where she still resides. She treated me as if she were my big sister and helped me through a tumultuous period in my life.
Carla had been an aspiring dancer and understood loss. A car accident injured her back so severely that it ended her dreams of being a dancer. The physical injury also left lasting emotional scars along with it.
Little did I know --- or, perhaps more aptly put, what I failed to consider --- was that my birthday gift to her would open those scars to such a degree that her wounds would be made fresh again, causing her to recoil from me in a flood of tears and flee from the gaze of her other birthday guests. How could I have been so blind?
It was a poem that inflicted so much pain. My poem, a birthday poem, which I wrote for her and her alone. A special poem, a sonnet, each line starting with a letter that formed the words, "Ballerina Carla." So thoughtful, so personal --- too personal, and ultimately, thoughtless.
The poem is still in my possession, safely tucked away where it can cause no further damage. Only the last two lines echo clearly in my mind.
Life is her stage; her heart has prancing feet,My guess is that her grief prevented her from ever seeing those two lines.
And dance, she will, until life's rivers meet.
The Perils of Poetry - first in a series.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Happy Birthday, My Brother
Craig, the lost soldier…
You are the dead horse, which I’ve continued to beat to death over the years. I would like to say that I’ve run out of whips, but I haven’t. I find myself searching for bits and pieces about you and your family from time to time. Your boys are grown up; my nephews, but not my nephews; at least one of them is married. I saw the oldest when he was an infant and teething, but that was decades ago.
Do you remember that courtroom hearing long ago, which changed both of our lives? You were old enough to know what I was unable to comprehend, that I was not your “real” sister, that your dad, Arnold “Arnie”, had just adopted me at the tender age of 4, that your dad was not my “real” dad.
You and I were in the backseat of the car, when our argument started. You barked rebelliously. “He’s not your dad! I’m not your brother!”
“You are, too, my brother! He is, too, my dad!”
Again, you barked, “You’re not my sister! You’re not his daughter!”
“Liar! Mother, tell him to stop! Make him stop!”
Mom gave you a look that made your blood run cold, “Craig…”
You were in big trouble. She used your full name. I don’t remember what she said that made you stop dead in your tracks, but I remember the look in her eyes. The look said, “Don’t you dare cross me, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Only vaguely do I remember that you were sworn to silence, that you were told never to bring up the topic of my paternal descent again. And, you didn’t. From that day forward, the subject of my adoption was locked safely away; referring to Arnie as my dad remained uncontested; and, you always referred to me as your sister. Not until my twenties would you put the word, step, in front of sister, a day that I remember well along with the shock and hurt.
You are now a Master Sergeant in the National Reserve. Your days of military school, of playing Combat on the lawn with your friends, of volunteering in the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) have become a reality. It’s no surprise to me. I’m glad that you followed your heart, what belonged to you and no one else, what no one else could touch, what was sacred to you.
You might think that I've forgotten by now, that I've managed to let go of you and of my memories of you, but I haven't. My heart won't let me forget. Step-sister or not, there's a bond that I am unwilling to break, a love that I refuse to extinguish.
I love you, Craig, and I wish you on this birthday what I have always wished you, only the best and all the blessings that life has to offer you and your loved ones.
Happy birthday, my brother...
You are the dead horse, which I’ve continued to beat to death over the years. I would like to say that I’ve run out of whips, but I haven’t. I find myself searching for bits and pieces about you and your family from time to time. Your boys are grown up; my nephews, but not my nephews; at least one of them is married. I saw the oldest when he was an infant and teething, but that was decades ago.
Do you remember that courtroom hearing long ago, which changed both of our lives? You were old enough to know what I was unable to comprehend, that I was not your “real” sister, that your dad, Arnold “Arnie”, had just adopted me at the tender age of 4, that your dad was not my “real” dad.
You and I were in the backseat of the car, when our argument started. You barked rebelliously. “He’s not your dad! I’m not your brother!”
“You are, too, my brother! He is, too, my dad!”
Again, you barked, “You’re not my sister! You’re not his daughter!”
“Liar! Mother, tell him to stop! Make him stop!”
Mom gave you a look that made your blood run cold, “Craig…”
You were in big trouble. She used your full name. I don’t remember what she said that made you stop dead in your tracks, but I remember the look in her eyes. The look said, “Don’t you dare cross me, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Only vaguely do I remember that you were sworn to silence, that you were told never to bring up the topic of my paternal descent again. And, you didn’t. From that day forward, the subject of my adoption was locked safely away; referring to Arnie as my dad remained uncontested; and, you always referred to me as your sister. Not until my twenties would you put the word, step, in front of sister, a day that I remember well along with the shock and hurt.
You are now a Master Sergeant in the National Reserve. Your days of military school, of playing Combat on the lawn with your friends, of volunteering in the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) have become a reality. It’s no surprise to me. I’m glad that you followed your heart, what belonged to you and no one else, what no one else could touch, what was sacred to you.
You might think that I've forgotten by now, that I've managed to let go of you and of my memories of you, but I haven't. My heart won't let me forget. Step-sister or not, there's a bond that I am unwilling to break, a love that I refuse to extinguish.
I love you, Craig, and I wish you on this birthday what I have always wished you, only the best and all the blessings that life has to offer you and your loved ones.
Happy birthday, my brother...
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Game Over
Not many people call our house after 10 PM on a weeknight. Understandably, Rusty will sometimes get work-related calls that late. Family and friends hesitate to even call us after 9 PM. So, when Rusty and I received a phone call on Tuesday just after 10 PM, we were already wondering who it could be.
Rusty happened to be the one to answer the phone. When he told me that it was a friend's wife asking to speak with me, we knew it was bad news. Bad, bad, bad. As he handed the phone to me, I knew that this was not gonna be good.
Sure enough, Raj, a friend of mine who I had met in the mid-70s at San Diego State University, had died last Thursday of a heart attack. He would have been 53 on September 7th. He would have been. No extra innings. No overtime. Game over.
From what I could ascertain, the ER really dropped the ball. It seems that he could have been saved if the proper protocol had been followed. To make matters worse for his wife, she is having difficulty accessing personal information stored on his business computer, which is passworded. If I understood her correctly, some of the personal documents have password security as well, passwords that she doesn't know --- at least, that was my impression. She doesn't even have the access that she needs to pay their bills online. Additionally, the two of them were in the process of preparing their living trust.
So... you might say that I'm somewhat in a state of shock, limbo, whatever. I'm feeling a bit lost, a bit numb, a bit introspective.
Raj was always a kindred spirit. He always will be. It's quite likely that his smile and his laughter contributed considerably to global warming on this planet. His smile alone could have easily illuminated every black hole in the universe.
While his death certainly disturbs me, it's also a wake up call, a reminder, a prod, which proclaims in a clear voice, "Hey, everybody, pay attention to your health and get your ducks in a row, 'cuz ain't no one safe!"
Rusty happened to be the one to answer the phone. When he told me that it was a friend's wife asking to speak with me, we knew it was bad news. Bad, bad, bad. As he handed the phone to me, I knew that this was not gonna be good.
Sure enough, Raj, a friend of mine who I had met in the mid-70s at San Diego State University, had died last Thursday of a heart attack. He would have been 53 on September 7th. He would have been. No extra innings. No overtime. Game over.
From what I could ascertain, the ER really dropped the ball. It seems that he could have been saved if the proper protocol had been followed. To make matters worse for his wife, she is having difficulty accessing personal information stored on his business computer, which is passworded. If I understood her correctly, some of the personal documents have password security as well, passwords that she doesn't know --- at least, that was my impression. She doesn't even have the access that she needs to pay their bills online. Additionally, the two of them were in the process of preparing their living trust.
So... you might say that I'm somewhat in a state of shock, limbo, whatever. I'm feeling a bit lost, a bit numb, a bit introspective.
Raj was always a kindred spirit. He always will be. It's quite likely that his smile and his laughter contributed considerably to global warming on this planet. His smile alone could have easily illuminated every black hole in the universe.
While his death certainly disturbs me, it's also a wake up call, a reminder, a prod, which proclaims in a clear voice, "Hey, everybody, pay attention to your health and get your ducks in a row, 'cuz ain't no one safe!"
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