My parents were already dating when my father got his draft notice. There was a war in Vietnam, and he absolutely did not want to go. He tried proposing to my mom so he could say he had to stay home and support his family. She told him emphatically that she wasn't ready to get married. She did, however, offer to drive him to the Army Medical Center for his appointment.
(What a lady.)
For a really, really long time I felt like the ugliest person ever to walk the Earth. Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but only by a little.
I felt...ugly. Like a ridiculous blob. I felt as if every photograph of me had the insidious determination of cataloging weight gain and skin blemishes. Whenever a camera came out, I hid behind my hands or pulled a ridiculous face. Anything, I thought, would be better than displaying the atrocity that was my double chin.
And so, for a few years, all evidence of me disappeared.
October 25, 1946: a memory I never knew she kept so secretly dear.
Hidden behind a shot of my grandmother crossing the street with my preschool brother, I found the photograph completely by accident. It fluttered to the floor and landed face down. I dismissed it as a scrap of paper. Unimportant.
Later I picked it up to read the words written in my grandmother's elegant hand. My heart pounded. Probably, my cheeks flushed pink.
“My birthday,” she wrote.
“And our anniversary.”
Listening to the Special Session on Marriage Equality in my homeland of Hawai'i, all I can say is this:
Had she lived to see it, today would have been my beloved grandmother's ninety-fifth birthday. I wish that ovarian cancer hadn't taken her in the first days of 1993, but I feel so fortunate that it didn't take her any earlier. She was, until long after her last breath, needed.
It's a quote we see all the time, often when someone is trying to absolve themselves of being an asshole:
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
Okay, so that's not exactly true. I just said that because I loathe this quote. You caught me.
October is an ocean of pink. Everywhere you look, you can buy affirmations of solidarity to let everyone know that yes, my licensed water bottle proves I am in this fight. Even my beloved Sounders sported their obligatory pink to support breast cancer awareness. A pink ball was used, to further the cause.
I'm sure that was super helpful.
Tomorrow is my mom's birthday. It's the second one we'll be facing without her.
I feel like I just came through the dark, treacherous tunnel of Christopher Robin's stillbirthday. On Thursday, I felt kind of invincible, actually. Triumphant. I survived, and spent some much needed time feeling all the love for my lost little boy.
The thing is, people abandon us whether they want to or not. And we're going to abandon everyone we've ever loved. We all die. And we're all get left behind. It's just the way it goes.
You just have to accept it.
Well maybe other people accept it. I've read their fucking blogs. I know they thank God and give their burdens to God and talk to God as if he's listening.
And they find, at least, a little bit of comfort.
Can I tell you about the cle ft in his chin
Just like his father's?
(I see it every single day.)
Or the way his face began to