catera

Tomorrow, Dylan will be going with me to St. Joseph. We'll drive I-70.
He was home from school today, staying in his room until late afternoon.
Poor thing.
"Do you know everything wrong with that car?" (the Catera)..
"No..."..So he shared, a host, a litany of problems. I sighed, shrugged the mother shoulders. Cannot afford a new one right now...refuse to fix it.

Tomorrow, Ray will stay home, have friend(s) over. Play his guitar. Work on the computer. Smile shyly. Fix pizza. Eat cookies. Drink all the orange juice. Wonder why I can't be at work on Friday night.

Today. Cottage cheese will be scraped from the ceiling. I'll look at the storage room and wonder how we are going to move all this "stuff". I'll persevere in my mind saying, "we WILL move this stuff." and think positive self-talk is a wonderful thing, sometimes. My sister and her family will swing by on their way to St. Joseph. I'll wonder why she has no lines on her face and no gray hairs being she is only one year younger than myself.

Tomorrow. My brother will ask me if I still celebrate christmas. My other brother wll tell me about the two women he is "dating" on two different continents. I'll ride with both brothers and my son to the mausoleum. The funeral procession will be long but nothing like my father's (which was HUGE), we will be laughing in the car and gesticulating. I will point out that isn't it interesting that Bob's "service" was at Ashland Avenue church and we drove ALL the way to memorial park for the "burial" and that Grandmother's funeral was at Memorial Park and we drove ALL the way to the Ashland graveyard for the burial. hm.

I hate funerals.
My heart will beat. My palms will sweat. That overwhelming need to cry will bloom like a flower in my gut, pushingpushing to escape, with a sniffle sneeze and some furtively wiped tears as I regain control. And then. It will be boring. The "word" will be stale. The spirit gone.