I found myself skating alone in a sea of people. It sounds lonesome, but I smiled as I watched the charming stereotypes of wobbly children and first-time-skater adults, crying toddlers, teens loitering along the fringes, and a few show offs whizzing in and out. It took a few times around the rink for my muscles to remember what to do, but I enjoyed the brief adventure of outdoor skating. Perhaps I'll go again before I see another ten years pass by.

I have come to enjoy the sense of community found upon entering a bar during a big game. Every cheers, claps, or groans in disappointment as a group. Some bars are smokier than others, so after the first period I headed over to a nearby friend to watch the rest of the game. As I was riding, another goal was made- and I could hear the entire city ecstaticly cheering. It was a thrilling moment that was, perhaps, far better than watching the goal beign made.

Between knitting, family events, and dreams, I've been thinking of my mother a bit more often these days.

I've got a number of biking adventures coming up, including friends and family. I've been reading like mad to keep up with my students, and there will be a grading frenzy as I prepare to grade finals and all the late work students turn in at the last minute. Work can still be a source of frustration, but is much more often a source of joy or accomplishment. My mother would have enjoyed watching my progression through this year.

I had visions that I would write every day about my mother during December and January. That I would have lovely stories to tell. All year long I've had little moments where I remember my mother. I wish I'd recorded these moments.

I'm glad I've had time recently to be with my father and sister. I feel slightly more human. I don't really feel anything about my mother's death any more- except for a bit of confusion over this lack of feeling. I must be in denial. I used to call my mother weekly- sometimes more often, just to share every little story about school with her. Successes, failures, frustrations. I consulted with her on how to clean up the marker when the toddler in my care drew on the unfinished wooden table. You get the picture. I referred to her as Stephanie to indicate that as I grew into adulthood our relationship changed and grew into something more than mother daughter. She hated it- but I think she understood my intentions and so, for a long time she put up with me calling her Stephanie.
But now- it's like I feel more pain at not feeling pained about her death than I do about this loss. It's not that I don't care. I do. It sucks. But I say this and write this with little emotion. I feel somewhat inhuman, uncaring, forgetful.
That is why I appreciate being around people who remember, who care on a daily basis. They share their memories, and emotions and I remember that I am human, that I miss her too.

I'm a little concerned that I am going to fall apart someday, or that I am not entirely human. Ever since I was young I've felt different in terms of how I approach and view death - detached and pragmatic. I figured once someone really close to me died I would feel/be different (more normal in my response to death).

It is different.
I can hear my mother telling me to count this as a blessing, and hear the hurt in her voice as she says it. The kind of voice that says she knows logically that the hurtfulness is unintended- but stings anyway. Like when I told her I was a little jealous of the knitting she did for my other siblings cause she always experimented with me- tried something new for the first time- and then made an improved version for them.

So- outside of feeling like I don't feel appropriately- I'm good. It's weird. I know I shouldn't really worry about having 'normal' greiving. I should allow myself to let the memories and tears come when they do. I worry that my lack of distress/grief must mean I didn't love her. Like I'm not honoring her. I did, and I do.

Monday's memorial was to have a pear for Breakfast. For a very long time, my ma would get a small plate, a proper cutting knife, usually the red handled knife, and slice a green Anjou pear. She occasionally mixed it up by having a yellow or red barlette or other varietals. The pear was usually consumed with a cup of tea, and a number of family members roaming the kitchen, dining room and bathroom as we prepared for the day.
On Sundays breakfast was accessorized by the newspaper, and the comics were shared and passed around the table.

These days I find I enjoy a sliced pear dipped in almond butter. I recently enjoyed a pear that my father picked for me- prepared in this fashion. I will always associate pears with my mother. Back in Virginia we had a market that sold local pears in the fall. I'm so glad I was able to share them with my mother. Virginia was my first real home away from home. Still, I was able to contact my mother on a whim, to ask about the water to rice ratio, about confusing cold symptoms and other things that only parents/family can answer correctly.

So- some day I'll get all my work done right away (insert sheepish grin here). In the mean time we are planning a 'snow picture walk' of the town- to take pictures at night of nearby churches and cool buildings while the snow falls.

I've added the Edith Piaf movie - La Vie En Rose to my netflix list.
I have gingersnaps in the cupboard for Tuesday- but they will pobably be enjoyed with tea all weekend long.

I have been planning to start to write on my blog in December as an homage to my mother's decline in health and the time we spent as a family taking care of her. But I realize as we approach Thanksgiving that this was really the beginning of her decline. She took off from work and was unable to return. I felt like yesterday's early celebration was in a way a celebration of the things my mother taught me in the kitchen. Sort of like a little offering in her memory.

This letter inspired me to do some more job searching. My favorite source- Craigslist- supplied me with hours of sorting and e-mailing. I think I will be able to get in on some well paid (this is relative) tutoring and a private school that pays subs better than the one I have been working for of late.

It is hard to wait long enough to allow the substituting to push me into a full time position. I still need a second medical form attesting to my good health before I can work in the puublic schools.

After a deep search into the working world I cleaned up a space in the basement and drew a picture of my mother from a photo. Soon I will begin to paint. It is not fabulous - but I think it is recognizeably a photo of Stephanie. The really hard part will come in getting the lighting right. Well - the next hard part. The drawing was also difficult. Especially the facial features.

I have made some friends here, we have a built in social network through Eric's department. Plus Alana is here and My cousins are nearby as well. I am significantly closer to my dad and sister.
The town has character and I like it. It seems that I will be able to substitute close to home easily - and hopefully often.

From my back windows - in the reading room, bathroom, kitchen and dining room I have a view of the funeral home next door. I see the families dressed in sombre attire, the hearse, the parade of cars with flags, the street parking meters covered - reserved for the funeral. They seem to host a funeral every few days. Infrequently enough that I am not overwhelmed by death in Pittsburgh. Often enough for death to remain my companion. I am drawn to the funeral home. But what would I say? I've thought it over many times but don't get any farther than "My mother died in January..." I want to crash a funeral - What do other funerals look like? How do other people grieve? Who is dying , and why? The question that haunts me "Why am I dying?" And the pragmatic answer that haunts me too, "You have cancer." Haunts me because it is true, and yet a meaningless answer.

On the plus side I can sleep with my closet door open these days . This is progress.