Pink Cupcakes

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Brooklyn turned 14 years old yesterday. 

I am feeling more melancholy than I have in years passed. 

I can't even find the words to convey how I feel, which is not really normal for me. I have much to be grateful for, yes...much to be happy about, and I am...but, also much to be angry over...much to be brokenhearted over and those feelings seem like they are finally demanding their seat at the table. I can fully relate to Scarlett O'Hara's "I'll think about that tomorrow..." mentality because it is how I've lived most of my life. I focus on the crisis at hand, and there is somehow always a crisis at hand...then, I make a plan to find a way through it...afterward, I shove residual feelings about it down or only let it out in microbursts. I was determined to avoid the depression that consumed my mother, so I became quite proficient at pretending things were just fine. People could walk into my house, smell smoke or see embers flying, and I'd be setting the table like nothing was wrong. It is how my marriage imploded a few years ago. I was tired of running around putting out the thousand tiny fires in my life, so I decided to just step back and finally let it burn. 

Well, this has taken an unexpected dark turn...here, have some pink cupcakes.



This year, Kindred knows that Brooklyn is her big sister and that she was my baby who died.
She knows there are some things in her room that I bought for Brooklyn a long time ago but they belong to her now.

Beyond that, we haven't explored the Great Mysteries of What Maybe Happens After That because what I think is probably what most folks would be shocked to hear come out of a 4 year old in southern Kentucky. So, we'll just keep that one tabled for now. 


These three little psychic anchors...keeping my feet on the ground. I love them so damn much.
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