The Present

I just read the book "The Present" by Spencer Johnson.

Daddy was always giving us self-help books. I say "always", but it wasn't always. It was really after he left Mom, or after we grew up. Those things happened pretty much together, I guess. When he left Mom, we were mostly grown up. At least grown-up enough to only go back for either advice or money. (Parental lesson there. Obvious to anyone with adult children.)

But I digress. Actually, I don't digress, I just let my mind wander.

Anyway, I am back home in Louisiana. I have a few reasons for coming "home". To pick up furniture. To be alone. To focus. To think. To mourn. To reflect. To learn. To pay attention. To rest.

I'm doing the typical hiding in the bedroom thing, eating what I can find in the kitchen. The only light on, in the house, is in the bedroom. I don't want to leave the house. I don't want to see people. And I don't want to see or do things that John and I used to share. I don't want to face the future without him. This fucking sucks! But, I have to go out because I am almost out of cigarettes. See the irony? I have to go out of the house to get the thing that will eventually kill me, therefore, I am forced to face life. Ying Yang.

I have been home almost 24 hours, and I just got my suitcase out of the truck.

Next to my bed are bookshelves. I picked up a easily read detective book, and read the whole thing this mourning. And I found a little book Daddy gave me. He always wrote a short message on the inside cover. He apparently gave me "The Present" for Christmas 2003. It made me cry seeing his hand-writing.

I don't want to be doing this fucking grief shit! I want to be four years old and pitch a big fucking fit and get away without have to do it. Or just express my energy and be able to focus and get it done.

My four-year-old self needs a nap.

I love you, Daddy and John!