No More Balloons

Thursday was Justin's 24th birthday. I had spent the last few weeks with a growing anxiety. I had mentally circled the day in red ages ago. 


In years past, my mother has assembled some sort of hoopla to celebrate Justin. Two years ago we went out to the spot where we scattered his ashes and released balloons, then she cooked all of his favorite foods and we exchanged gifts. Last year my mother and I released balloons at the park where my brother played Little League. We followed that with dinner at his favorite restaurant and a dessert that was a childhood tradition. 


This year: nothing. No balloons. No birthday cake. Nothing.


No one even said a word about Justin. My sister had an appointment to get her hair thinned at 3:30 that afternoon.  BestFriend called me; she didn't remember that it was Justin's birthday. I couldn't force out the words to remind her.


I couldn't bring myself to say anything to anyone. In the days leading up to the 29th I hadn't mentioned it either. I wasn't sure how to approach it with my family; I didn't want to inflict it on my friends. I know that my friends would have been supportive. When I mentioned the significance of the date after the fact in that casual-but-not-really-casual way that I bring up tough things my friends were lovely and supportive and insisted that I should've told them. It wasn't that I didn't want to, exactly. I felt incapable of forming the words. And I didn't want to shine a light on my pain, or invite people to pity me. I didn't want to be viewed as seeking attention or sympathy. 


To be completely honest, I expected people to remember. Not my friends, but his friends, my family, all of the people who inserted themselves into my grief   when he died.


The worst part isn't that no one reached out to me. The sad, dark part of me always expects that. The worst part is that I feel as if everyone forgot Justin. All of the people who were his friends, who promised to love him forever are gone. It hasn't even been three years and he's already been forgotten. My grandmother didn't even call. 


By early afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore. I got into TheEgg and just drove. I ended up at the same sand dunes where we scattered Justin's ashes. I go there every so often to visit him. Not as much as I should. I sat there, wrapped in a beach towel and staring into the sea, until the wind dried all of my tears and my feet were numb. 


Days later, this is still bothering me. I feel so alone. How could they have all forgotten so soon?

Ordinary Time

Reverb11
Prompt for December 14: Ordinary Time: Tell us about an ordinary week in your 2011 life; describe your routine. Do you hope that your day-to-day, week-to-week life remains much the same in the coming year, or are you trying to shake things up? How will you do that?




My work life winds around a never ending series of staff meetings. They run a gambit from mind-numbing to absurd, and they're peppered with moments of unintentional humor. 


I wear many hats: assistant, babysitter, dictator, confidant, MeanGirl, disciplinarian, advisor, comic relief.
Each day is different; each has its own challenges and triumphs.


I come home to a big goofy Rottweiler who thinks she's a lap dog, a comfortable sofa and a bottle of red wine. 


I "drink about it" with friends on Friday afternoons and Tuesday evenings. I take refuge at BestFriend's house where we watch DVR'd episodes of PanAm and Glee and The New Girl; drink; plan her wedding; emotionally recharge. 


On Wednesdays Lovegood and I take a long lunch. Lunch is the only respite we get on a day dominated by staff meetings. We go to a local steakhouse where I order sweet tea, "the salad with the scary cheese, but hold the scary cheese" and a bowl of soup every week. Our server's name is Dom and he reminds us of Lames. 


Thursday is my "Saturday". On Thursdays I do my laundry. It takes hours. I am extremely particular about the entire process. I sort my clothes very carefully. I use time- honed combinations of water temperatures and laundry products to achieve my desired results. I hang-dry and hand-wash. I starch and iron every wrinkle, collar and cuff. I fold with a precision born from years of folding ninety dollar tank tops. Laundry, I suppose is my own weird sort of therapy.






My world is small, insular, safe. I've worked hard to make it this way. I've worked hard to build my routine. I enjoy being a creature of habit. I might shake it up a little this year, but right now I love the monotony.