2000-06-23
Dear Diary:

Can't sleep. The spatter of heavy rain on the skylight above our bed woke me up and even after the storm moved off I couldn't seem to find my way back to oblivion.

I padded downstairs quietly in the dark, flicked on the kitchen light and poured a generous splash of Amaretto in a glass. I heard the soft tup tup tup of the cats' feet as the two of them came to investigate what was up, their fuzzy faces scrinched, lots of sleepy blinking as their eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of the kitchen.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flash, the first fireflies of the season floating by my kitchen window. Couldn't waste that.

The three of us headed outside to take in the show. I paused on the front step and let my eyes adjust to the dimness; the last thing I need is to trip over a skunk or porcupine waddling across the yard. The perfume from my hedge of Henry Hudson roses over by the woodshed was unmistakable, even from the house. In the darkness like this, the snow white flowers seem to float in the air.

I winced when my feet hit the gravel of our driveway. The cats and I sprinted over it towards the soft wet grass and the pond. I grabbed the inner tube in passing and eased into the water.

Our spring fed pond is still too cold to be pleasant for swimming, but if I float in the top foot or so of warmer water it's not bad and keeps the mosquitoes off my skin. I rested my chin on the inner tube, draped my arms over the side and gave myself to the night. I could feel the goldfish darting in and out, nibbling on the downy hairs of my thighs and arms, an odd sensation.

Every so often a tiny bat rocketed in, skimming the surface of the pond, and I could feel the soft breeze of its passing as it swerved to miss me in that last possible split second. The only sound was the pond waves when I moved, my cats rummaging in high grass nearby. The fireflies were in small clouds, little floating bits of blinking luminescence.

Ashley MacIsaac.  Hard to love the man, hard to forget the music. The cold of the water, the mosquitoes drove me back in here to this glowing screen, my last refuge from insomnia. Ashley MacIsaac's "hi how are you today?" is my soundtrack as I sort through my feelings.

Tonight I know why I can't sleep. I saw the family ghost in the village, the person who's there but not there anymore. My one day to be ex-sister-in-law, the woman one of Paul's brothers has abandoned after 29 years, a marriage finished. It's all so very odd and messy.

Where to begin with this one?

This was never a terrifically happy marriage but we had all thought that after all these years they had come to some sort of ... some sort of understanding, you know? And then, just a few weeks before last Christmas, Mike left.

As sad as it was to have a marriage die right before the biggest family holiday of the year, well, their kids could handle that. Who knew better than they how much unhappiness there had been? But what they couldn't handle was the sudden appearance of the Other Woman, some one we knew.

It quickly became clear that if Mike had to choose between his past and this woman, she would be his choice.

Way back when Paul and I married (yep, back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth) the minister gave a little homily. And as I rolled my eyes and fidgeted, he said a marriage is never just between two people, that it stretches into their family and their community.

I remember thinking, "Yeah, right, sure it does. Can we wrap this up and get to the reception, please?"

Now to my great pain I'm finding he was right.

Mike's growing estrangement from his adult children ripples into our lives. We love these two, we have watched them grow up. We are a family. His mother's pain over how he is not being tidy about this, no divorce yet, no legal separation, just legal limbo, that ripples into our lives. We are a family.

My mother-in-law would like to keep things amicable with the discarded woman, this is the mother of two of her grandchildren. But there is great bitterness in this break-up and I'm not sure it can be done.

And the woman Mike has left ... oh man, that's so hard because we were never close she and I. We're so very different as people. She has ferocious allergies so she seldom ventures outdoors and keeps a hermetically clean home. I live to garden and my home is always a train wreck ... clutter is my middle name.

She invested all her life, all her being, in the roles of wife and mother, did not work outside the home. I don't have that kind of selflessness. I never handed all of myself over that way when I married, when I became a mother. She is devoutly Catholic, I am a troubled agnostic ... we are so very different.

Within the last six months she's lost everything that defined her. Her husband is gone, her youngest child is done high school and leaves for Montreal shortly. But when we meet in the tiny village where she lives, the place I go to shop and bank, we talk of light inconsequential things as we always have, she and I. Both pretend that nothing has changed. But everything has.

Now, when we have family get togethers like Mother's Day, she is no longer there, no longer one of the mothers celebrating. She was not with us last Christmas and will probably never join us again. Twenty-nine years part of a family and now not.

Our family ghost.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.