Current Mood: 
sad
that even writing down my memories didn't guarantee I'd remember them when I read them again, later down the road of life. She's a grandmother, she knows of what she speaks, right?
Perhaps so. I mean, I admit, I do step back in my crazy number of posts on this journal and realize, I don't remember what the hell I was talking about.
But still...it's rather comforting. SOMETHING made an impression on me that day. I made note of it. Maybe that'll just have to be good enough for me.
I still want to write things down.
Tonight, I lazed in the bathtub. I splurged and used 2/3rds of a Lush Happy Pill instead of my typical 1/3. I had Death Cab for Cutie's
Plans in the cd player, and I was reading
Good in Bed. Hopefully I don't spoil much for a years-old book, but at the point Cannie discovers she's pregnant, my mind took me on a whirlwind trip back in time.
1995. My father's back yard. We're on the patio, and I turn my back to him, lean against him, take his hand and press his fingers into my belly, where the small, hard roundness of what would become Katie had become noticeable to the touch.
In that moment - that brief, tiny moment - the world narrowed down to him and me and my baby. I was having a baby. My first child, his second grandchild. I don't know how comfortable he was, having me manipulate his hand to feel something so small and rather intimate, but he allowed it, didn't say anything,
wouldn't have said anything. I was his baby until he was 103 and whatever I did was good with him, if it made me happy.
Six and half years. That's what we would have left. I didn't know. None of us knew. Would we want to know? We didn't know that grandbabies would keep being born after he died. That the world wouldn't come to a sudden and defining end. That aunts and uncles would celebrate milestone anniversaries and he wouldn't be there to serenade them with irreverent lyrics and plunger-handle fiddle bows and two-pick guitar pluckings on an old flat-top.
We certainly never thought that grandparents would outlive parents.
Except me.
I knew. Somehow, I knew. At some point in the adolescent years, when no one understands and everything you do is wrong, I listened to The Eagles'
Desperado and knew - KNEW - that my father would die young.
I knew it.
And I was powerless to stop it.
Funny how just a few words can send you back in your own life, to remember a time and place and scent and touch and moment.
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