Mick "Feisty" O'Malley

He sat there, snuggled into the corner of the box opposite his brother in May of 2000.  He was teensy tiny.  Their mother had been hit by a car and died a short few weeks after birthing them.  Seeing them, I instantly melted.  Losing his mother so soon didn't bode well for the runt of the litter.  No one expected him to live.  No one expected much of anything from him.  Even I didn't expect what came from this precious kitten.

His days were spent playing "King of the Chair" with his bigger brother and another rescue that we took in.  He was named for Mick Foley, the hardcore wrestling legend.  He fought spots on the wall, the vacuum cleaner, and feet.  He attacked me in my sleep and nestled himself in my hair to catch his own zzz's.  He really was the smartest of them all.  And the most loving.

A few months in, my landlord decided that cats were a "no".  So, we had to re-home all 3.  Mick went to live back at home with my little sister and parents.  Our dad always proclaimed his undying hatred for cats and dogs.  Which was ironic because we always had so many.  He secretly loved them.  I would walk into my parents home and find Mick relaxing on my dad's lap.  My dad would make an elaborate scene where he pretended like he didn't know the cat was there and put him on the floor.  Much to Mick's confusion and chagrin.  Eventually, my dad confessed that Mick was the best cat he'd ever known.

Shortly after Mick's first birthday, my 'ma passed away.  I moved back home to care for everyone and I was reunited with my Mick.  But my dad decided to sell the family home and move to an apartment down the road.  Mick was none too happy with this decision (much like the rest of us).  He took matters into his own paws and walked back to our house.  Somewhere along the path, he became entangled in a fox trap.  He was found by house painters with the trap on his foot.  They, in turn, called the police and the humane society came to get him.  They removed the trap and boarded him.  When he didn't return home, my sister knew something was amiss.  She insisted upon finding him.  Miraculously, they did.  However, the paw was in serious pain.  He had become infected.  So, the week of Thanksgiving, he had his toes amputated.

We changed his bandages.  I'd hold him down and tell him how much I loved him and how we were just trying to help when he'd fight.  He'd calm and let us work.  Sadly, the infection had traveled too far.  He had to have his entire leg removed or die.  At 1, he lost one of his back legs.  For months he was depressed.  His playful self had been tamed.  He didn't do much of anything.  My dad and youngest sister moved away and Mick went with them.  Within months, my dad was gone.  His last days were spent with Mick on his lap.

Mick got bounced around but went wherever my sister went.  He befriended a kitten, Sally, who was missing an eye.  They looked so much alike.  He took her under his wing.  Of course, stability isn't anything our family has ever known.  My sister was living with my aunt and was forced to let go of her pets.  Mick came back to live with me again.  By then, The Middle Son was a baby.  Mick adapted to the household and the move well.  He was always there.  Crapping in my dryer or the bathtub in the winter and spending summer days and nights catching whatever was slower than him.  His feisty side was always there.

Mick was a formidable hunter in spite of the missing leg.  Once, he took care of a pesky rodent that The Oldest kept in a cage in his bedroom.  You can never get the visual of finding half of a hamster in a cage out of your mind.  Really.  You can't.  It's upsetting.  Another time, he caught a rabbit and let it loose in our living room - still alive.  Mostly, he would bring us mice or moles or bugs.  Sometimes he would eat them whole and puke them back up on the floor.  Cat ownership is pretty awesome.

He got very sick once right before I had The Youngest Boy.  I remember begging him to eat something.  He just laid on my bed, uneating, unmoving.  I resorted to force feeding him.  The thought of losing him physically hurt.  He bounced back, though.  He never left the immediate parameter of the house, no matter where we lived.  The Oldest and I think that losing his leg so early in life saved him.  He always stuck close to home after that.

He was kind of an asshole.  Knocking water over onto guests.  Attacking my feet while I slept.  Sleeping on my face.  Barging into my bedroom every night.  Stealing the last piece of bacon.  Demanding to go outside but not actually going outside.  Begging to get in the front door so that he could immediately go to the back door to get out.  Like walking around the house was a chore.  He wouldn't kill the mice in our garage.  Pee on every bathmat I ever owned.  Puke everywhere on everything on everyone.  Finished my hot fudge sundaes.  Beat the shit out of bottle caps.  Knocked down every cup in the house.  Peed on my house slippers.  Peed on kids' back packs.  Ordered $667 worth of Hello Kitty memorabilia on Amazon.

He was also gentle and loving.  If you were sad - he would comfort you.  He'd come right up to you and rub your face with his head.  He'd nudge you.  He would let you hold him.  He'd snuggle you at just the right time.  Like he understood that your tears meant that you were hurting and he knew to love on you.  If you were sick, he'd bring you chicken soup for your soul in the form of purrs and pats.  He loved popcorn and potato chips.  He loved ice cream and whatever you were drinking.

When we made our move to our current home 3 years ago, he moved in with The Oldest in his room.  Peas in a pod, they were.  They began speaking the same language.  The Oldest knew when Mick needed something.  They had a very regimented routine.  The Oldest gave Mick his all.  They kept each other company.  They were best friends.

In the last year, his age started to catch up with him.  The last several autumns he'd get really sick and I'd think it was the end.  It wasn't.  But, he wasn't bouncing back like he used to.  Last summer, some jerk of a kid hurt his back leg.  We thought for sure it was the end.  I put him in cat diapers just to try to do something.  Back then, I thought it was the end.  He pulled through, in true Mick fashion.

Trips down to his basement were too painful.  He moved upstairs, onto a heater vent, to warm his bones.  He'd sun himself under the tree or in the flower bed.  He loved the outside during the summer.  Eventually, he stopped trying to catch everything.  He began to watch the wildlife around him.  I'd come home from work and he'd get up from whatever spot he'd found and come in with me.  He'd wrap around my legs and I'd yell that he was trying to kill me.

He'd had several near death, close calls in the last few months.  He got so sick that I'd made "THE" appointment.  I'd sobbed on him the whole night before, praying for more time.  On our way out the door, I noticed an area on his leg and touched it.  He bit me.  Minutes before being euthanized in March, we discovered an injury from fighting a raccoon.  He missed death again.  The infection was stubborn though.  More stubborn than we thought.

His face swelled and wounds at his neck seeped.  The vet said that he didn't back down - since the injury was to the front of him, it meant that he put up a hell of a fight.  The infection overcame him though.

I came home from work early to find him comatose on his spot on the couch.  The Oldest took him out under his tree for the last time while I called our vet.  Together, we carried his limp little body in for the last time.  We hugged him and rubbed his head and told him that we loved him.  We held him until his purrs stopped.  He hobbled along Rainbow Bridge.  He took my heart with him.

17 years is a long lifetime for a cat but it wasn't enough.  Especially the little one that no one expected to survive.  He used all 9 of his lives, and then some.  He made every single day better.  It's been 3 weeks now and the pain in our hearts is still very raw.  He's home now, in a box on the shelf.  Next week, we are taking part of his cremains to my dad so that they can be together.

He wasn't just a cat.  He was never just a cat.  He was a small little furry person with a loving soul and hilarious personality.

Until we meet again key, I love you.

Parents Just Don't Understand

My youngest son started playing for a local, recreational soccer league when he was in Kindergarten.  He's ending 4th grade this year.  He has been a winner (undefeated season - yay Grasshoppers!) and a loser.  He's played with a ruptured appendix (DOCTOR APPROVED - and I have proof!)  2 seasons a year since Spring of 2013.  That's a lot of soccer!  He learned so much and gave his best every time.

2 years ago, we got a call from his coach and that was pretty much the only contact we had with her.  She either didn't show up for practice, didn't tell us where practice was, or came for the last 10 minutes of the session.  And parents just stood there watching their kids kick a ball around, waiting.   I made some calls because this was unacceptable.  The division coordinator told me to step up.  So I did.  I'm not a soccer laureate and never will be.  But, I decided that doing my best was better than nothing at all.  8 little boys were watching.

Those few weeks were so hard!  I had no clue what I was doing.  I stayed up all night reading rule books, looking up drills, working playbooks.  I didn't want to let them down.  They were a great set.  I know one, in particular, is going to be in the newspapers someday.  We lost like crazy though.  There was so much. politically speaking, that I didn't know was a thing.  Like - other coaches will purposely play more men on the field when they know that your team is short but also better.  Or one coach lady that insisted on being an asshole at every opportunity.  And for what?  She won't be accepting any World Cups. Some refs are rude and on power trips.  The only thing they can do for jollies is be mean to a bunch of little kids and unpaid volunteers.  I also learned that adults really do ruin everything.  Listening to moms belittle their 8 year old boys on the field.  It broke my heart.

Somehow, I'd always end up with the short team or the team where another coach accidentally took 2 of my players.  I met a lot of boys with enormous hearts.  There's one set, my Fall 2016 set, that will forever be my all time favorite set.  No offense to any of my other kids.  But this set had this electric chemistry.  They were HILARIOUS.  Practices were a blast.  They were kind - to each other, to other opposing teams, and to me.  They took all things in stride.  One little guy broke his arm and couldn't play the first few games.  He never missed a practice or a game - even in the rain.  He still supported his team.

After 4 seasons - this last group broke me.  The kids are awesome.  They aren't the problem.  The first game, a woman didn't know she was sitting next to my husband and started gossiping about me and my parents' business.  My parents have been dead for 16 years.  I worked in their store when my dad was diagnosed with cancer.  I left my printing career to help them.  And 18 years later some parent is talking shit about it at the soccer field next to my husband and kids.  The next game - a dad started saying awful shit to my kid during a game.  Did I mention that these parents are parents for MY team?  They didn't realize that I was/am friends with everyone they were sitting around because I have coached many of their kids.  I asked the dad, and anyone else who wanted to shit talk on the sidelines, to step up.  Show up to a practice.  Help me coach.  Not a single one bit.

But this week was the final straw.  Another dad was yelling during a game.  He was yelling so loudly that he got into it with another parent from the other team.  Parents from our own team were upset with it.  What's worse is that the boys on the field stopped looking at/listening for me because he is so much louder.  Thanks dude.  Thanks for not stepping up when I needed help and only running your mouth when it was show time.  The Board asked him to stop.  I asked him to stop.  He refuses to listen.  His inability to control his mouth is more important.  He is ruining a game for boys under 12.  Including mine.  I'm not just a coach - I'm the mom to one of these kids.  Young men need role models - not more yelling.  One of these guys is a teacher at a special school.  Not for kids with special needs.  Extra smart kids.  Not Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.  When I mentioned that I work in a foster care agency, he assured me that none of our "riff raff" would qualify to go to his school as they have an application process that weeds out kids like ours.

I have 2 jobs.  I work for a foster care agency where I put in as much of my brain as I can to help improve lives of kids I'll never meet.  I try to do a small part to help the office run smoothly.  I'm a small cog in a beautiful machine.  As an abuse survivor, I do have an understanding of what they have gone through.  My second job, as a paralegal, is something I picked up again to help an old friend.  Honestly, I do not *need* to work.  I'm fortunate to not be struggling anymore.  But, my friend needed me and I get to work from home for him.  So, I don't miss out on time with my kids.  I have a business that is finally flourishing!  Business is at a nice, steady pace and I'm doing what I love.  I volunteer in my daughter's class.  I help her teacher with whatever she needs.  I helped at lunch.  I help with parties.  I help wherever my hands will be useful.  I volunteer at The Middle Child's school.  I get to listen to history projects and speeches.  His teachers are phenomenal.  Recently, I became affiliated with an organization that dresses up as super heroes for charity events.  I get to be Wonder Woman!  Yesterday, I attended an event in honor of cancer victims and survivors - some were not even 3 years old yet.  So, yes, I did the Chicken Dance as Wonder Woman for charity.  I still teach the world about my hometown via a local cemetery that homes some pretty big names in innovation.  Not only that but I am actually a mom to 5 really great kids.

I come from a long line of volunteers.  Their obituaries read like novels.  Their work impacted hundreds of thousands.  I want so much to take the life I was given and do something meaningful with it.  I wanted to show my kids that "I can't" isn't a thing.  I took hours out of my week, away from my own children, to coach 10 more boys.  And, my thanks is some guy who can't shut up.  We are always going to be met with opposition.  That's not a reason to give up.  But sometimes it is a reminder that you can do good somewhere else.  So, I'm packing up the cleats, the nets, the cones, and my megaphone.  The Youngest Boy is boxing up his jersey collection and his shin guards after our final game today.  We're off to our next adventures.

Disposable Teens

Another member of my pack passed on, just before Christmas.

Ron was the glue.  Most every event that ever happened in the history of all the things - he was the integral part.  Whether he drove us there or provided the party location - he was the key.

I met Ron on a chilly September Friday night.  Thinking on it, I can still feel that moment.  I feel the crispness of the air.  I can smell the Fall.  I remember that I was wearing a black shirt and black pants with black combat boots.  My hair was in a pony tail to show off my 1993 undercut.  He walked in - in all of his 6'4" intimidation.  He was wearing black jeans and a black and purple windbreaker.  Ron was a huge guy.  Like, seriously huge.  He wasn't just on the football team - he was the football team.  He was 18, the oldest of us all.  He was so quiet.  And so much the opposite of his exterior.

I'm blessed enough to have this initial encounter immortalized on video tape.  That night changed my entire existence.  That night I found my family.  From that night forward we convened in my bedroom or in Ron's van or at his house.  He had this cat, Garfield, that probably saw more than the average cat would or should ever see.  His whole bedroom was this phenomenal mural of Star Wars.  It was commissioned by his father who passed away just before we met.  He was truly a geek in the most exquisite of ways.  He tore through books and could quote just about any poet and philosopher.  He refused every offer of alcohol even though he'd procure it.  He'd deny any hit from a bowl or bong.  He'd push away the cigarettes.

He was so kind and gentle.  He showered us with lavish (in teen terms) gifts filled with great thought and deliberation.  I wish I could find the necklace he got me.  It was Egyptian styled - blacks and golds.  He was one man that could make the most hilarious of euphemisms for masturbation (Robin and the Batpole was the best) and still have the taste of a gentleman.  He was so shy and reserved... at first.  He was a puzzle that you either wanted to figure out or leave completely alone.  I loved him instantly.

He'd take us to concerts - Pantera, White Zombie, The Breeders, Slayer, Tool - And because of his size, he'd let me sit on his shoulders so that I could see the stage as I was so small.  Once, I got totally shitfaced drunk on ridiculous amounts of Mad Dog and I took my clothes off.  Gently and carefully, he covered me up and protected me.  A lessor man would have taken advantage.  For his chivalry, I planted on him his first, grape flavored, french kiss.  He was classy enough to not speak of it again.  He was the first man that I'd ever feel safe next to.

Eventually, his resistance to alcohol gave.  And slowly behind it came the pot.  And cocaine followed.  He got into several car accidents where I worried that I'd never see him again.  Now, that moment has arrived.  I can remember walking behind him through The Narrows Pet Cemetery, leaves rustling under our feet.  I remember thinking that it'd take a force of epic proportion to take him down.  And it has.

My heart hurts so much.  Similar to the way that it did when Steve passed earlier.  I can feel the lump in my throat climbing and tears are waiting for more opportune moments to break free.  My dear friend is gone.

And these are the moments where time hasn't passed.  I don't care how many years it's been.  He was still in here - in my heart, in my soul, in my identity.  He is as much a part of me as I am.  Because we formed each other many years ago.  For some, there was some implied expiration date on this friendship.  A relationship shelf life that I don't believe exists.  If I have once called you a friend - time does not prevail - love does.

I love you Ronald McDonald.  Thank you for being a formative energy in my life.  Thank you for picking me up when I called.  Thank you for giving me a chance.  Thank you for the years we shared in our rooms and cars and homes and beings.  Thank you for being safe.   Thank you for Come As You Are.  Thank you for the big belly laughs and my first hit from a 6 foot gravity bong that required me standing on your bed when I was 17 years old.  Thank you for the trips to Taco Bell.  Thank you for being there for the birth of my first child and for standing at my first wedding.  Thank you for accepting me.  Thank you for allowing me into your life for the time that I was.

I will miss seeing you from time to time and sharing a laugh and memory.  May you fly free from the pains that bound you on Earth.  Someday, I hope many, many years from now - I hope to see you, Ryan, Jason, Bryan, and Steve again.  Maybe hang out like we did for just a minute.

The Long Kiss Goodbye

Light spreads in between the the leaves of the magnolia tree and falls into the kitchen through the window.  A brown, Gucci purse, sat on the side of the table.  The walls needed painted as they bore the tell tale signs of young children.  The chairs were haphazardly spread out.  The remaining paper plates positioned at each seat indicated that tiny hands created lunch.  The tile on the floor was cold from the AC that was running.  They were patterned white squares with overlapping, black diamond shapes.  Some of the doors of the oak cabinets were open, revealing either dishes or non perishables.  The phone on the counter was ringing.  Small voices echoed through the room, ignoring the call on the line.  A man's bellowing exclamations about the, approximate, 100 lights being on as he shut the garage door behind him, drowned out the flowing, girly giggles.  He is carrying a gallon of milk in one hand and a plastic bag of groceries in another.  He reaches for the fridge to store the milk while a little girl tries to inspect the bag for treats.  Another girl appears and they ask, nearly in unison, what he got for them at the store.  A little boy dawdles in, curious about what the girls are doing.

A woman comes in, looking worn out, and asks what he purchased.  He retorts with something sarcastic.  She wants to go out to eat for dinner.  He chooses the restaurant in Lewisburg.  She hates Lewisburg.  She wants to go to Cracker Barrel.  One of the girls chimes in with a vote for Lewisburg.  The other sides with the woman.  He asks if they are all going to go out looking like that.  Now, all 3 ladies join forces to barrage him with hurt looks and whining.  They all go their separate ways and their voices trail off into different directions while they change clothes.  

They reconvene at their starting point.  They have all freshened up and they are all excited.  They haven't decided on a destination.  They argue it while determining which car to take, who gets what seat, and if she's going to be smoking those God Damned cigarettes all the way there.  One by one, they go out the front door, turn right onto the path towards the driveway.  The door closes, their sounds diminish as they approach the green van and pile in, and it backs out onto the street towards the sunset.  

Conversations with Anorexia

"These pants don't fit anymore.  They are too tight.  I'm not a size 4." - Me

She replies, "It's because you are fat."

"But, I was eating like a 'normal' person.  I wasn't restricting.  I wasn't counting.  I only stepped on that scale twice and that's because I was holding my purse and it was kind of heavy so I put it down to get a real weight.  And I subtracted 3 pounds because I shouldn't be punished because I was wearing clothes.  I just participated in life, like I was supposed to."

And she said "Now, you have muffin top.  And if you bend over in those jeans, the ass is going to rip out.  And your reunion is coming up so all of your flaws will be on display.  They will judge you just as they did before.  But, I can help you.  See those fat rolls?  See that extra chin starting to appear?  See that ring that your husband gave you that's sitting in a box because you gained 10 pounds?  See those cute pants in the closet that are too small?  I can fix all of that.  And you'll be happy again."

I know what I should have said to her.  I should have said to her - "A size 6 isn't the end of the world.  It means I need new pants and that I should clear out this closet.  It means that I really enjoyed the desserts with my family and all of the garlic bread nights.  It means that where I was at the time mattered more to me than perfectionism.  My pants size doesn't define me.  I like the taste of food.  My hair isn't falling out.  My gums don't bleed all the time.  My periods are almost normal again.   I can go outside without a jacket. "

But I let everything else speak for me.  I let 2 years of a crazy workplace speak for me.  Some stupid racist bitch, a misogynist pig of a boss, the office slut that slept her way to the top - I let them take the wheel.  I let the new boss who made rape jokes and disgusting comments about my body speak for me. I let the rejection letter for my writing take over.   I let every asshole in my life, every *thing* that I can't control, every bad feeling, every annoyance - I gave them the reins.  Because if I stood up for myself instead of letting everyone in my life have constant input and control - they'd get upset.  It's much simpler if I just sit here, quietly.  

Instead my response went more like this - 

"Maybe for just a little while.  Just until my pants fit again.  Just until I can look in the mirror and not be disgusted with the reflection.  It'll only take a few weeks.  I can drop 10 and it'll be easy.  Then, when I am back down to that, I can maintain it with clean eating and Pilates.  Just until I feel better....."

A Tout le Monde

For many years, he was there.  He was part of my collective.  He was part of my life.  He was my little brother.  He was my best friends first love.  He was a fellow autism parent.  He was kind.  He was sensitive.  He was my friend.  

I'm struggling with so many feelings surrounding his passing.  I'm full of so many words that feel so hollow and so much silence that feels so solid.  

Some people are angry with him for ending his life the way he did.  He left his son to walk this world without him.  He left his father to grieve his remaining days for another child that he outlived.  He left his friends to mourn a deeply loved person who was there one minute and gone the next.  On his way out, he left a painful goodbye on Facebook.  His agonized final words forever immortalized in those black and white letters.  

Steve was one of the people who shaped me into being me.  He influenced me.  His essence is a part of who I am.  His fingerprint is on my life.  They say that you should choose your friends wisely because you become most like those you have around you.  And I chose them well.  So many years of sitting in my bedroom, listening to music, inventing games, sharing pain, sharing laughs, sharing silence, sharing parts of books, poetry, drinks, joints, sharing who we were.  Every memory contains a part of him.  He was there for everything.  He was there every day until I divorced my first husband when I was 21.  Almost every single day from the time I was 15 until I was 21 - Steve was a staple of my every day.  Of course, we saw each other here and there since then.  We live in the same city.  We interacted on social media.  We talked about our sons' autism and the struggles.  We mourned the loss of each one of our fallen brothers together.   Our last conversation was discussing his appreciation for life after some near death experiences and the passing of other dear ones.  I didn't know that the last thing I would ever say to him would be that I was glad that he was alive.  

Some people are struggling with why he ended his life the way he did.  He walked out to the garage and in one trigger pull, he was gone.  I hid in that very garage once when I was dealing with parents who just didn't understand.  Why did he do it?  What set him off?  What drove him to that point?  What pushed him?  

Having known Steve for as long as I have in the way that I did - I'm neither angry or curious.  Because, I understand.  I almost was Steve.  I'm just sad.  There isn't a word powerful enough to express it.  I'm just sad.  And I feel guilty.  I know that anguish.  I almost put my family through it.  Knowing how this feels - to be on the other side of suicide - I'm so sorry that I ever, ever, ever even contemplated it for a second.  I feel so tremendously awful for considering doing this to my loved ones.  I feel selfish for feeling that way when my focus should be him.

But I feel so guilty that I wasn't able to do something to help Steve.  How can I call myself a friend?  I didn't know that it was this bad for him.  But I did, in a way.  I was not surprised.  Because, deep down, I knew.  After all, I knew that Steve was always sad.  He always struggled.  He had many moments of happiness when we were kids.  But, he was not ever the kind of person that would outwardly express much of what he was feeling.  He felt so much.  He felt everything.  It was like a radio on full blast for him all the time.  He couldn't shut off the sounds.  He could just go numb to it every now and then.  We just accepted that he wasn't the type to smile much.  We all met when we were going through the worst of the worst so we just kind of held each other together.  It is because we were all there together that we all made it as far as we did.  

I also just get it.  I have been so low that nothing else mattered.  I have felt that weight.  Part of me wishes that the part of my soul that understands could hug the part of his soul that was so tortured - just to say goodbye.  As much as it hurts me that he is gone - I completely just understand.  Some pain is just so insurmountable.  Some coping mechanisms just lose their potency over time.  Sometimes, your soul just grows so weary that you can't take another day.  Sometimes, the drugs aren't strong enough.  Sometimes, the volume is just too loud.  Sometimes the treble is so high your ears bleed.  Sometimes, the bass is so deep that it rattles your insides.  Sometimes, the balance is just too far away.  Suicide is not weakness.  Suicide is being strong for so long that your knees give.  There's a reason that holding up the heavens was a punishment for Atlas.  No one volunteers to carry that burden.

I just wish there was some way that I could have helped lighten the load.  Even for just a minute.  

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I can honestly say that 1993 was one of the best years of my life.  I was adopted into my unique, marijuana-addled chosen family.  This little family is where I came to discover unconditional love, uninhibited weirdness, stun guns, bongs, what an Astro van can do down a highway, how many people can fit into said Astro Van (18, by the way), Pantera, Marilyn Manson, LSD, euphemisms for masturbation, Fargunglehaas, poetry, deep thinking, sex, every flavor of Mad Dog 20/20, crowd surfing, higher plane innocence, brotherly love, sisterly bonds, and The Anarchist's Cookbook.

Ron, Kaiser, Bailey, Forgy, Cordell, Ted, Bill, Steve, and Jess - this motley crew became my inner circle that year.  It was Ted who would break the news to me of Kurt Cobain's death after a day of skipping school to get high.  Cordell would be my first love and baby daddy (though, the baby didn't make it beyond the beginning of the second trimester).  Forgy would become my brother and live with me and my family.  He left this world a few years back. To this day, Jess is still my best friend, my heterosexual life partner.  More people would flux in and out of our little collection - a few Jason's, a Jeremy, a Jeromy (passed in 2013), a Mark (stolen by cancer when he was 15), some Scotts, a Jared, a Matheny, a Ryan.  Then, a James, who would become my first husband.  The core of us tended to stick together, like thieves.

If there was something illegal or absurd to get into - we'd find it.  One time, Kaiser stuck his head out of the window of Ron's van while we were driving and his glasses flew off into Forgy's yard by accident.  Another time, Ryan got so drunk that he passed out under my Blazer in Bailey's front yard and we got a dolly and carted him into the house, shot him off of the dolly onto the floor at the base of the toilet, threw some crackers at him and advised him not to die.   One time, some skeezy bastard who outweighed me by about 150 pounds tried to rape me at a party and Jason K crashed the door down - not intentionally to save me - thinking it was the bathroom, so that he could vomit all over the floor.    There was the time that the guys had no weed nor money to purchase it so they captured a moth that was happily dancing in the light while we listened to Cake and Sodomy and then put it into a six foot gravity bong and smoked it.  Ryan passed away last year. Jason passed several days after Ryan.

One of the best memories ever was the Works bomb.  There was this horrendous pit of spiders that was in Ron's back yard.  (Ron had this amazing Star Wars mural in his bedroom spanning all 4 walls) The spiders would come in and bite Ron in his sleep.  In a moment of bored sobriety, the guys decided that they were going to do something about it.  They had a copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook and decided to put it to good use.  They'd build this Work's Bomb and blow the shit out of those fucking spiders, once and for all.  I, of course, had no part of this.  I merely observed in terrified amusement.  I watched as they created the thing in a Mountain Dew Bottle.  They mustered up the balls and headed into the back yard and I stayed in the house.  I waited in Ron's room, watching the small, rectangular window that was so high that it almost touched the ceiling.  I could hear their laughter from the other side of the brick.  I could hear them philosophize over the enormity of the pit and it's various species of arachnids.  They almost sounded intrigued.  Then Steve says "Let's blow those little fuckers up, man".  I could hear them strategize.  Then, a noise so loud that my ears rang.  The window went black.  Then silence.  That's when I decided that rather than be the one picking up chunks of my friends from the grass or wrestle limbs from the dog's jaws - I'd just leave now.  I took off out of the front door and headed towards my Blazer.  I got in and started the engine.

Then, one by one, my friends made their way to the front lawn.

Screaming.

Beating themselves.

Screaming.

Crying.

And screaming.

They were covered in spiders.

I locked my doors.

They ran to my car, begging me for help.

Steve, with his puppy dog brown eyes and his stringy, blonde hair peppered with spiders of all sizes, pressed his baby face against my window and asked me to kill him.  Saying "I've seen hell".  Then they started smacking each other.  They eventually moved on to the "Stop, Drop, and Roll" technique that was the most successful.

This will remain in my heart as one of my all time favorite moments in history.

Last night, Steve took his own life.

I have found it difficult to throttle my tears.  This was my inner circle.  He was the youngest of us all.  And by far, the most sensitive.  He was beautiful and quiet.  And I'll never see him again.

We think that the hardest part of aging is the crow's feet at our eyes or decreased elasticity of our skin.  Sometimes, I find myself picking apart my maturing body and start to feel like it's all flying by so fast.

The actual hardest part of getting older is all the goodbyes that we aren't ready for.

Rest peacefully, Sven.