Work in Progress 727

Perspective.  That’s what it’s all about.  It’s how I look at it, whatever it  is.   It’s more than how I pronounce it:  You say tomahto, I say tomayto.  It’s what in my mind and often what’s on my mind   that makes the difference. And probably a lot more.  Certainly I filter things through history, background, and memories. When it comes down to “brass tacks,” as my parents used to say, it’s  either or black or white.  Or is it that simple?

In terms of perspective, is there a difference between April 9th, the date of my daughter’s departure, and today, March 16th, between 15 months and 319 days later?  (Forgive my math!).  What's the difference? Or, am I  trying to fill the time with things that make no difference? I remember reading a comment years ago about the brain not knowing what it doesn’t know.  Because it doesn’t know what it doesn't now, it fills its mind with what it thinks it knows. Since it doesn’t know what it doesn’t know, it fills itself with a bunch of not-knowing-ness.  Which is probably the equivalent to pondering the number of angels tht can dance on the head of a needle.

I torture myself with these kinds of thoughts much of the time. Since my Baby Girl changed her address from earth to glory, I feel lost.  She had the patience to indulge me in many of my mind’s meanderings.  It was probably her school-teacher patience.  Or maybe she was as bored as I.  Often, I wonder why I don’t pull my hair out by the roots when the pain of her absence overwhelms me, while at other times I become almost philosophical, as if she really is not dead (what a ponderous word!) but on her way back home.

Yet, I continue searching for the real truth. Is it what’s in my heard or what’s in my heart? Is she really dead? Whether it’s either-or, what’s the currency of exchange? What am I giving up, or to what am I giving in? It helps, I believe, that there’s no cemetery to visit, no office to go and ask for plot and row and marker.  The fourth Marker near lilac bush? Thanks.  I get lost trying to navigate the streets near my home, much less trying to make sense of all those little lanes and how they intersect and connect to finally bring me back to the Forest Lawn (not the real name) Business office. I feel so lonely, so alone. A cemetery would make it worse, I’m sure.

I remember that going from place to place seemed to come naturally for her.  She could estimate how long getting from Point A to Point B should take.  Of course, she typically went five to 10 miles over the speed limit.  She did it---sped---with such aplomb! She didn’t even get lost when she lived in New York City! Wow, was I impressed!  She could read maps, even in Atlanta, Georgia with all its “Peach Streets!” Which was even more impressive..  Actually, the only thing I liked about Atlanta, Georgia were its Southern Gothic authors. And James Brown, because I lived in Augusta, his home town, and because he was so gracious as he walked through town, taking the time to speak and smile.

My guess is that until my spirit, soul, and body heal from the assault of my Daughter’s death, I’ll remain in a torturous place whose name is “Perspective.”  Balderdash!