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coyotegothThese days, it seems like all of my most emotionally meaningful posts go to Facebook, with LJ getting either a cut n' paste copy of same, or some random "attack robot spider dress!"- type link. All right; for the sake of old times, I'll post this here, and only here. These are two recent moments that served to remind me that for all the difficulties of this last year, and life in general, there are still joy and love there as well.
My birthday. The first year I was in California, I spent my birthday alone; while I *did* bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and dine at Harris', it still wasn't absolutely ideal. The second year, I had dinner with K (he and his wife A are two of my closest friends in California- or at this point, pretty much anywhere); A was under the weather, but K and I had a fine sushi dinner, talking mostly about Torchwood, as I recall.
This year, they invited me to their home. A few weeks back, I had given away my coat (a long black duster) to a random street person who had complained of being cold; it was late, and she was wearing a thin gown and a hospital band, and I didn't have any money, and... to hell with it: I gave her the coat. A, hearing this, offered to replace it for me; I, flabbergasted, accepted; this turned into an invitation for a birthday dinner. A, a wonderful cook, had made a wonderful meal; K served as A and I chatted; a wonderful, unforgettable evening was had.
Christmas. When I left the East coast, it was an utter and complete parting; not least for financial reasons, I left cognizant of the fact that I might never see any of these places, these people, again. (Although happily, subsequent visits from easties have proved me wrong.) The hardest single moment was saying goodbye to my father: he was 86 then, and although he still has his faculties, there is no denying that the years have taken a toll. In the last moments we spent together, he literally gave me the coat off of his back (I wore it on the flight out, and on this year's flight back, under the birthday coat); it's hard to even think of my feelings as I watched his figure recede, and the car pulled away.
Now, I'm home again, and he is still here, as am I. He has a problem with swallowing that makes me wince every time he starts coughing (he had radiation for a tumor on one vocal cord when I was 11); he's a *touch* more forgetful... but he's here, and we're talking, and I thought these days might never come. Sitting next to my sister at dinner, and chuckling as he tried to figure out her camera phone. Reminiscing over the time my sister spontaneously decided during a trip to England to visit our grandmother's childhood home, and at that exact moment (allowing for time zone differences: it was roughly 5 pm there, 11 am in New York) my grandmother turned to my father and said out of the blue, "Sarah's in my home." All the moments, the memories, the things are amusing trivia if you don't come from that country, and treasures without price if you do.
My birthday. The first year I was in California, I spent my birthday alone; while I *did* bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and dine at Harris', it still wasn't absolutely ideal. The second year, I had dinner with K (he and his wife A are two of my closest friends in California- or at this point, pretty much anywhere); A was under the weather, but K and I had a fine sushi dinner, talking mostly about Torchwood, as I recall.
This year, they invited me to their home. A few weeks back, I had given away my coat (a long black duster) to a random street person who had complained of being cold; it was late, and she was wearing a thin gown and a hospital band, and I didn't have any money, and... to hell with it: I gave her the coat. A, hearing this, offered to replace it for me; I, flabbergasted, accepted; this turned into an invitation for a birthday dinner. A, a wonderful cook, had made a wonderful meal; K served as A and I chatted; a wonderful, unforgettable evening was had.
Christmas. When I left the East coast, it was an utter and complete parting; not least for financial reasons, I left cognizant of the fact that I might never see any of these places, these people, again. (Although happily, subsequent visits from easties have proved me wrong.) The hardest single moment was saying goodbye to my father: he was 86 then, and although he still has his faculties, there is no denying that the years have taken a toll. In the last moments we spent together, he literally gave me the coat off of his back (I wore it on the flight out, and on this year's flight back, under the birthday coat); it's hard to even think of my feelings as I watched his figure recede, and the car pulled away.
Now, I'm home again, and he is still here, as am I. He has a problem with swallowing that makes me wince every time he starts coughing (he had radiation for a tumor on one vocal cord when I was 11); he's a *touch* more forgetful... but he's here, and we're talking, and I thought these days might never come. Sitting next to my sister at dinner, and chuckling as he tried to figure out her camera phone. Reminiscing over the time my sister spontaneously decided during a trip to England to visit our grandmother's childhood home, and at that exact moment (allowing for time zone differences: it was roughly 5 pm there, 11 am in New York) my grandmother turned to my father and said out of the blue, "Sarah's in my home." All the moments, the memories, the things are amusing trivia if you don't come from that country, and treasures without price if you do.
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