Break. Through.

Today I finished reading a book, Little Shoes, by Pamela Everett. I haven't read a book in years, let alone finish one in one day. For years I have been paralyzed, unable to commit.

I was reminded of many a Sunday afternoon when I was a tween and then a teenager, starting a book in the morning and finishing it before dusk. My favorite reading spot was on the stairs in our two-story home, the steps lined with red carpet - an odd choice in retrospect, the red carpet, that is. The stairs overlooked a nearby Catholic cemetery, its walls pastel green, rimmed and accented with pristine white. I could watch the sunset from there. It was a tranquil, magical spot. I enjoyed admiring the dead from afar, reassured by that certain end for all of us, finding peace in the universal finality.

Oh, how I miss that home. I ache.

Or perhaps it is my youth that I mourn?

Last night, in an emotional state, with the memories of a childhood home lost forever, I broke down and cried into my hands silently while seated next to RJ on the sofa. RJ's mind grows sharp as the night is long, and he is usually nocturnally engaged one way or another, often in more ways than one, simultaneously. And thus he never noticed how I was practically sobbing. Except there was no sound. Boy, that was a good cry. What I needed.

I ponder why I am drawn to reading about crime. A part of it is, in understanding the horrors and the criminal minds behind them, the acts are less unspeakable. After all, a human mind conjures up these things. And aren't we all human?

Another part is probably externalizing pain. Others have suffered too. We are all in it together. I am not so alone. My pain is NOT ridiculous and overblown.

During my recent visit with the rents, I forget which one of them said, musing over Sundays being family days where we would have our outings, to the effect of "We thought those days would never end. And one day, you are grown. And we are old."

Surely many generations - every generation - has had the same thought. As I look upon my nephews and realize, one recent day, they are now both taller than I. How did that happen? When did that happen?

I used to roll my eyes at adults who would make such stupid statements. Like, duh.

One of my worst fears is I will have wasted my life. When someone is assigned to write my obituary, there won't be much to work with. I mean, have you read obituaries? They seem riddled with medals, philanthropy and humanitarianism. What have I got to show?

RJ has said that his greatest accomplishments are his three sons. My brother W likes to refer to my nephews as "the offsprings". That still cracks me up.

I don't even have any spawns.

I can't be the only one who's felt that the gift of life can be a burden? Expectations. Who have you got to answer to?

Death can be liberating. And it will come. Free for all.

It has been said that (and I paraphrase):

Small minds talk about people.
Mediocre minds talk about events.
Great minds talk about ideas.

When I blog, I feel that I am not small-minded. At least.

But you can't put that in an obituary, ay?