What is new?
Nothing much here. It's that time of year when you want to crawl into solitude, hibernate like the bears.
Though I walk the dogs every day, otherwise I stay indoors and contemplate spring -- my favorite season. It can't get here soon enough for me.
I have finalized the plot where my and late husband's ashes will be buried. Right beside my dear grandmother in the cemetery on land deeded to the church by my great-uncle. I still haven't planned the memorial for myself, but will as soon as the funeral home representative gets over shingles.
She's had a hard time: first she had to have emergency gallbladder surgery. And then she came down with shingles. At any rate, I will be glad to get the details of my cremation/memorial set, and put it out of my mind. One less thing my family will have to do after my death.
Now I want to close with a poem I've always felt describes why abused and/or impoverished children (including myself) never really escape what has happened to them in childhood.
I always wanted a red balloon,
It only cost a dime,
But Ma said it was risky,
They broke so quickly
And besides, she didn't have time;
And even if she did, she didn't
Think they were worth a dime.
We lived on a farm, and I only went
To one circus and fair,
And all the balloons I ever saw
There were yellow ones and blue ones,
But the kind I liked best
Were red and I don't see why
She couldn't have stopped and said
That maybe I could have one --
But she didn't -- I suppose that now
You can buy them anywheres,
And that they still sell red ones
At circuses and fairs.
I got a little money saved;
I got a lot of time,
I got no one to tell me how to spend my dime;
Plenty of balloons -- but somehow
There's something died inside of me,
And I don't want one -- now.