My brother, who raced bikes.

Hey ya’ll. Happy holidays & all that!. I’m sorry I haven’t posted any of the sewing I’ve done, lately. I originally intended this blog to be a mishmash of multiple things: writing, poetry, movies, art. Sewing. Ha! For the time being my blog is a little bit broken – I decided to refresh the design and lost all my pictures (gasp!). I’m working to add them back to individual posts, which isn’t nearly as much fun as it was the first time around.

The sewing is still a struggle for me. In the past several months I have completed all of 4 tops, only one of which has (so far) been worn. But I have to say — I do love the top I’ve worn. Worn so much, in fact, that I have not yet washed it for fear it will somehow change shape and no longer fit. But that’s a future blog post. As are the other three blouses — and the sewing machines I used to make them. And (in future) will use to correct them. Because I gotta tell you: set in sleeves… they are SO HARD. Silk: HOLY GUACAMOLE.

Meanwhile, life has been difficult, in some ways, for me. I’ve been struggling with my lungs again this year, amongst a few other things. The truth is that I had to do what is called a “Predisone Burst” by those in the know. This tends to throw me off in extremely major ways, sometimes. Unfortunately, this has been one of those times. The results have been interesting. And that, too, is another blog post.

In the meantime, Thanksgiving has come and gone. I decided to sit this one out at home, alone, because of all the coughing and fatigue. My husband went to my parents’ house and had dinner with my family, and I kicked back and did pretty much nothing. In it’s own way, it was a lovely day for all of us.

Thanksgiving 2003 was the last time I ever saw my brother. Coincidentally, my mother ran across a poem I sent her in 2005, a couple of months after I’d gotten married, and forwarded it to me the other day. It was the last poem I remember writing, though I’d forgotten about it, to tell you the truth. I find that I like it.

This poem was never intended to be a downer. It’s really just about a woman who finds herself with some time on her hands, thinking about the difference between real dying, and the kind of dying anybody lucky enough to live goes through on a day by day basis long before their end ever comes. Life changes. It becomes less about beauty and intentions, and more about family and the simple act of living. In it’s own way, that’s truly a beautiful thing.

My brother and I shared many health issues, but I was lucky enough not to have them with the same intensity that he did. Because of that, I have had so many more years than he did.

Some Thanksgiving day I will look out of the window of a cabin in the woods across a snow covered meadow to the woods beyond, and I will realize (with a sigh of relief) that I am exactly what I always pictured myself someday becoming: a little old lady in the woods — like Robert Frost, but with boobs, a sewing machine (or 13), and a great talent for a FBA.

I’m lucky. I’m pretty sure this is all still a possibility.

Much more fun, colorful, and stitchy posts to come, I promise (with pictures!! — currently, pictures are missing from my blog, though I am working on that). Also – I did just buy a 10 needle embroidery machine (thanks, Prednisone <she said, sardonically>), so there will also be writing about that.

Here’s what passes for my latest past time in lieu of sewing, for anyone who cares to read it:

Your Life.

I hear you looked out the window that night;
 that you wanted to see the rain falling, maybe softly, on your world.
 One body, the water,
 drawn together from various tiny shocks to the earth
 pooling in puddles,
 like we did when we were born.

It was the last real day of winter in the way there is always a true last day,
 and we woke up the next morning to a blue sky and petals;
 it was the first real day of Spring in the way there is always a first true day and you were gone.
 You were flying, zooming above us, ecstatic.
 Or you were not.
 You simply were not.

And we simply were.


One body, our family, coming together like raindrops,
 gathered like a puddle
 our tears drenching everything we touched.
 We three.
 Not four.
We remembered you in all the unique ways people are remembered.
 Lightening bolts of memories
 sparking through rain clouds,
 which fell (later), and fall,
 falling, not softly, on our world.
 Though often silently.

Sometimes I wonder
 how I could have missed it.
 If I had ever wondered how you would die someday,
 I would have imagined the way you died.
 And I heard you dying,
 but I didn't realize that you were,
 so I didn't see you, to do anything.

I am sitting, now.
 You are scattered in ash.
 In a box.
 In a bag.
 In our parents' window chest.
 I am sitting, now.
 Working, mostly, and also writing poetry.

 Because I can.
 I realize, all the time.

I think.

If I were to imagine myself dying, what would I imagine?
 And sometimes I think I would imagine what is happening now:
 Parents in transition.
 Brothers in boxes.
 Beauty and beautiful intentions, diminishing.

We watch ourselves die much more closely than anyone else
 watches us.
 Or us them.
 Watch me.
 Watching me.
 Sometimes growing and older,

My life.

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