The Dying Goat

“ You are a goat that has been separated from the rest of your goat community.  You are lost in the wilderness.  As you stumble through the wilderness, in your goat-like panic, you prick yourself on the thorn of a honey locust.  Don’t let its name fool you: the thorns are evil, five-inch suckers, very nasty.  The puncture wound is deep and, in your best, medically unprofessional assessment, lethal.  You will probably bleed to death, alone out there in the wilderness.  You quickly go through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stage of grief and come to accept your demise.  Then, in your indefatigable need to express yourself, as a writer of truth, even in the hour of your own inevitable death, you find a well-nubbed twig and dip it in the puddle of our blood.  What are your final words?” ~Jay Kirk

All I wanted was to be happy.  I am sorry.



  

blog shmlog

For a long time I've wanted to write a special journal, a 'book' on my everyday musings, predicaments, thoughts, written in letter-form for my daughter Sofia.  She is my firstborn, the female love of my life, the one who will bring forth all my unrealized dreams. Okay, so I have my issues. Bite me.

I've planned to start this book way before she was born.  I had this grand plan of writing down every detail about my pregnancy, her childhood, our family and friends and what was happening in the world as we lived our lives.  This book will provide her with a clear picture of her personal history and (more importantly) mine, not just as a mother but as an actual human being, flaws and all. (yes, i said it, flaws.)

I had pictured it in my head...me on my death bed, Sofia beside me looking radiant despite her overwhelming grief over my imminent passing.  I hand her a thick worn book. This is for you, my love.  (of course there's more of them in some storage unit..obviously not one book alone can cover what i had written since she was a wee one. but i do not need to discuss logistics, do i??) 

She gives me this you-are-the-best-mother-in-the-world look, she then tells me she loves me more than I can imagine, I close my eyes, follow the bright light, and yadda yadda yadda.  

Of course I'm assumming I go straight to heaven with all my crushes since high school.

Because of who I am, Sofia turned 8 this year and I have not produced a single letter.  Not one.  Hey, life happened.  But I swear I will. I think I will...yes, yes I will.

But just in case I don't get around to doing that marvelous 'letters to sofia' project, I can simply whisper 'extra rice, please?' on my deathbed.

Hopefully she won't literally bring me a cup of hot Asian rice, and will instead figure out how to get to this blog.