Tuesday, Aug. 20, 2002
Dear Diary:

I have these brown and white towels.

I've had them twenty-four years now and when I first got them I put them away. I didn't use them for a very long time, but at some point that just seemed silly.

As I dried myself with one after this morning's shower, I noticed that it's getting ratty. I really should retire it to my rag bag.

They're only towels, after all.

But then again, they were the towels my sister bought for her new apartment, the apartment she never moved into, so I guess in one way they're a lot more than towels.

How strange to think that my sister's towels have now been on the planet longer than she was.

Grief is the oddest thing. When it's new and fresh it's all around you, almost like a dense smoke. You can't see clearly, and it hurts even to breathe. Almost imperceptibly, though the smoke dissipates because all those clich�s about time are true.

Sort of.

And then out of the blue you can find yourself holding a worn brown and white towel and sniffling.

I know what this is about. My daughter turns 24 on Friday which means she, too, has outlived my sister now. My daughter who seems unspeakably young to me, who was just a chubby little baby when we drove home for my sister's funeral, has now outlived my sister.

The word gratitude hardly begins to wrap around everything I feel about this fact.

See, I am the granddaughter, daughter and sister of suicides. After my sister killed herself I decided I would not have any more children because I feared that along with curly hair, light blue eyes and a skewed sense of humour I might also pass on my family's burden of depression.

It didn't seem fair.

And you know, had my sister killed herself before my daughter was born, I'm not sure I would have had children at all. I know now that that loss would have been as great as the loss of my sister.

Mostly when I write here I talk about tiny little bits of my day, stories that come complete with beginnings, middles and tidy little ends.

But sometimes things happen to you and, well, there's nothing tidy about them at all. They never quite end because words such as "if only" and "what if" are inextricably a part of them.

And this would be one of those things.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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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 -


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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.

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