The Diary of A Lost Witch

Goodbye Blogger, Hello Wordpress

2012-11-12T18:29:00.003-05:00

The Lost Witch: ME, has decided to try and cast her spell from another format.

This blog will remain up, but will no longer have new entries. ALL of the entries, user comments etc. are on the new wordpress blog.

Here it is: thelostwitch.com

Find me, maybe?

XO,
S

And the winners are......

2012-09-17T12:36:00.000-04:00

All of you! Really... There are still 1st, 2cd and 3rd place winners, but I've decided that all of you, (and I'm keeping a file on this) will receive a signed copy of THE WITCH OF LITTLE ITAY (as long as you blog about it, goodreads, tweet, etc.) So... email me your addresses and I will send them out as soon as I get my pretty little hands on them. I know March is a long way off... but think of it this way... you'll get a surprise in the mail!

Now, onto the winners:

1st place winner: Barbara Ellingson! "I watch the children." Brilliant. Please email me and tell me what you would like as your prize. My agent OR my editor. Query or MS pages.

2nd place goes to: Jessica Cora her entry reminded me so much of my favorite authors. Virginia Wolf, Sylvia Plath, and most of all, Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Please email me so I have your email address so I can send you your giftcard!

3rd place goes to The Dharma Diva It was the last line. Moved me to tears. I can't wait to read more of your work... so I'm thrilled to be able to ask you to email me your query OR ten pages of an MS for me to edit.

BUT, please, please know that you are ALL winners. It takes a certain kind of bravery to put your amazing words up for review in a public forum. And what I know about all of you, every single contestant, is that you will all succeed in this business because of your fearlessness. It is an essential quality.

Thank you all so much.

And guess what? I'm going to run ANOTHER contest beginning Friday! Come back and check it out!

Writing under two names

2012-09-16T11:35:00.002-04:00

As most of you know, I am being published by two publishing houses in 2013. Saint Martin's Press asked that I use my real name (married name) because the book is THE WITCH OF LITTLE ITALY and I guess that name gives the book some street cred, so to speak. That book will be released March 26th, 2013.

My other book, I'LL BE SEEING YOU, (co-authored with the amazing Loretta Nyhan) will be published in June, 2013 by Mira Harlequin ... and because of the nature of the book, as well as two different houses marketing my (our) work, I'm using a pen name. Suzanne Hayes.

That name is magical for so many different reasons. Suzanne Hayes was the maiden name of my father's mother. My grandmother. She died when she was 39... many years before I was even born. My parents named me after her out of respect, and love. (though my mother also insists it was because she loved the Lenard Cohen song, Suzanne.)

Here's the magic part. I've always loved her. I've always felt robbed not being able to know her. AND I've always felt her spirit around me.

Guess what? She wanted to be a writer. It was a dream of hers. My father recounted a story to me about the time she sent a story into readers digest, and got a rejection. How she was devastated by that. And now, I get to publish a book (two actually, because we were contracted for two books), under her name.

How much more can you ask for?

Here she is, my beautiful grandmother when she was little:

And here she is with my Grandfather, James Cooper, on her honeymoon.

And here she is with my dad, James Sterling Cooper. Isn't she beautiful?

I am so proud that her name will be in print. It puts so much joy in my heart.

Contest!

2012-09-08T14:09:00.000-04:00

What's Their Story?

This Contest is now CLOSED. I am overjoyed with the amazing entries and will announce the winner on Tuesday. Thank you all so much for entering!

So, I was thinking and thinking... and I was trying to figure out a good way to share some of the luck I've had this year in the publishing industry with other writers. I remember (because it was NOT long ago), feeling lost and adrift... writing hard, and searching even harder for an agent. I wanted nothing more than to have someone who was inside the industry take a look at my words.

And then it happened! It was so validating.

I'd like to give that gift to someone else who feels alone. So here goes:

Flash Fiction Contest! The winner of this contest will have their words (query letter, OR first ten pages of their manuscript) reviewed by either my agent at Pen and Ink Literary, Anne Bohner, OR my editor at Saint Martin's Press, Vicki Lame. If you win, you get to choose who you would rather submit to, and what you would rather submit.

The flash fiction should be submitted in the comments. No more than 300 words. AND it must tell the story of the picture above.

To enter the contest and be eligible for the prize you must:
Tweet the contest (or Facebook announce)
Follow me on twitter @thelostwitch (so I can announce things there) (or "like" my facebook fan page)

If you don't do social media, but have a blog, you can blog about it. Just let me know your blog so I can follow it and read your words too!

There will be THREE prizes:
1st prize: noted above
2nd prize: 25 dollar amazon gift card
3rd prize: A critique of either your query or first ten pages of your ms by YOURS TRULY. :)

Contest will close by midnight (Eastern Standard Time) Saturday 15th, 2012.

I can't wait to read submissions! Good luck!
PS: If you are don't have a query letter or a manuscript and you still want to enter, please do! If you win, I'll send you a gift card.

Doors open, doors close

2012-08-26T09:50:00.002-04:00

On Wednesday I brought my oldest witch, Rosy, to college.

Born in a blizzard in 1994, I dropped her off in a vibrant, color filled place.

How do you leave your child? How do you assess her safety? (How do you live without her?)

But, to her credit, Rosy made the experience shine. She was happy. She was secure. She was excited. And in turn, that excitement dulled the pain of driving home without her.

So there we were, stuck in traffic, two little witches in the back seat and a bear of a husband starting fights with other drivers.

Me? I was lost in thought. The seeds of a new novel growing like weeds.

My cell phone rings. It's my mother.

My grandmother had fallen and they thought she'd had a stroke. She was dying, they said.

I still had four hours of travel before I could get to her.

The cars stood still on the highway. I wanted to become a giant and walk over them, crushing them as I went, so I could get to her and say goodbye. Say goodbye... again. Goodbye to the child I raised. Goodbye to the woman who raised me. Too many goodbyes.

Finally, we arrived back in New Haven. My husband (who'd gone from Bear to Kitten because of the news), dropped me off at the hospital. So much dropping off. Dropping off my daughter, the EMT's dropping off my grandmother. Too many dropping offs.

I ran to her. Flew to her.

The doctors said to prepare ourselves. That she would not live.

She did, in fact, live. Only different now. No words make sense. Her thoughts are gone. Her memory? Gone. She's gone. So much leaving. My daughter leaving, my grandmother leaving.... too much leaving.

It wasn't a stroke. It wasn't an infection. It was the beginning of the end.

She's going to live somewhere else now. A nursing home for sure. The one place she didn't want to be.
She's confused. Thinks she's in prison. Thinks she's at a boarding house. Thinks we abandoned her.

She'll move into a small room. One we can decorate. Kind of like a dorm room.

My mind works in circles.

Doors open, doors close.

Of Love and other things

2012-06-18T12:07:00.000-04:00

"Abandon ship!"
the captain cries,
panic under moonlit skies

The crew, astounded, sleepy eyed
notice calm and peaceful seas.

"What ever is the matter, Sir?"
asked simple john who swabbed the deck
a moment in his captains air
the scent of his disease

"Sirens, lads! The sirens come to drown us
one by one, and I shall not be taken. No not I!"

The sailors scanned the waves
No sign of lonesome mermaids
or their songs

"The captain's lost his mind," said John.

Daddy

2012-05-29T08:51:00.001-04:00

It's odd how someone can shape your whole existence without even being there. My father, James Sterling Cooper, was a man who came and went.

He had his demons. He was so very young when I was born.

His ability to run from what he loved the most is something I've grown to admire. Really.

The older I get, the more I realize that everything I do, I do for him. For his attention, for his love, for some sort of ticket in a time machine that will let me be a little girl again.

A little girl who loved her daddy. A little girl who saw herself in his eyes. And when he left, over and over again, I disappeared.

Like the seas he sailed on, the water rose and engulfed the person I wanted to be. The best sort of person. Only I couldn't shine without him.

Last week he called me.
"Hey, Girl," he said.
"Hey, Pap," I replied.

"I'm real proud of you and these books," he said.

"Thank you..."

And I was shining.

No matter what, a little girl loves her daddy. Forgives his sins and dances in front of him waiting for him to notice.

I'm 41, not 4... and it doesn't matter. I'm on his shoulders again feeling proud of who he is, damage and all. Wanting him to carry me forever.

A New List of Dreams

2012-05-23T08:15:00.001-04:00

When I was younger... much younger... I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish. Late at night, while my baby slept, I created dreams to fulfill. This was the list, straight from my journal:

Get married
Have more children
Buy a house
Write a book
Get a full time job

Now, to most, this seems like a doable list... but to me? Not so easy. I was coming off of state assistance (better known as welfare) and I had so many mountains in front of me. (A whole range of them already behind)

I can say that it took me twelve years, but I've completed all of these dream-tasks.

So, I need a new list.

Here it is:

Have Stephen King read one of my novels, enjoy it and then have coffee with me
Write professionally and become a writer in residence at a university somewhere
Have one of my novels made into a movie
Home school my children
Age like J-lo
Meet Loretta Nyhan
Earn enough money to situate my mother and my gram

What do you think? Too lofty? :)

I don't know... I like shooting for the stars.

What about you? Do you have any Dream Lists?

XO S

And the dream has a ...COVER!

2012-05-21T15:16:00.002-04:00

Not due out until April 2013... but here's the cover. All you guys who have been with me from my bloggy start, and all you new followers (Hey there, New Followers!) What do you think? I think it looks like a dream come true.

Xo,
Suzy

Life's a beach

2012-05-21T08:36:00.001-04:00

Warm for this time of year, I decided to set all other plans aside and take my little witches to the beach.
Seems like we never left. Like last summer overlapped into this one, seamlessly.

Only they are bigger now. Middle witch, 9 years old, almost my height. Littlest witch, just turned six, not a baby anymore. No need for constant worry or squinting into the sun to find them.

They played together in the waves and made castles in the sand. By themselves, because they remember now. They need no reminding of what summer means. Independent, they rose with perfect posture to meet the still cool breeze. Staring out into the great unknown with no fear.

Me? I read a book.

Amazing.

And a little voice inside my instinct whispered "Don't forget this. Don't forget the way they look or how it feels when their salty bodies run back to you for reassurance and warmth."

Because, you see... the oldest witch wasn't there. She'd made other plans (as she should have) but soon... all too soon I'll be alone on the beach with only the memory of them.

Little girls. Little witches. Stay.

Dreams About Teeth

2012-05-15T08:56:00.000-04:00

Last night I had a dream about my teeth. They were wiggly and falling out. Of course, when I woke up, I googled the interpretation. There are many meanings.

Loss of self esteem
Someone close to me may die or be ill
I might get some CASH (the whole tooth fairy thing)
Loss of power
Life change

What do you think? Have you ever had a dream about your teeth? Has something happened afterward that you connected to that dream? Let me know!

I believe in dreams. I think our unconscious mind tells us things we need to know. I wonder what the future has in store for me. It was SUCH a vivid dream.

Where is love?

2012-05-09T08:04:00.000-04:00

It's not that I don't know that I'm damaged. I think all writers have to be damaged in one way or another. When I teach my inner city kids, I frequently tell them that their harrowing lives make them more interesting than your average suburban kid. I could be wrong about that.... but it always makes my students feel a little more comfortable with the baggage they carry.

And my characters, where would they be without their broken parts? The comedy of lives gone mad. The loss that emanates out of them, making the reader (hopefully!) want to sink deeper into the story to find their own lost pieces.

The question is about every day life. How does someone hold on to another person who can't hold it all together for themselves?

Each day, I try to glue back the pieces of me that broke off the day before. Lately they don't stick as well as they used to, and the soft, unknown parts underneath show through.

What will happen if the glue stops working altogether?

Once, he told me I pushed everyone away. My father, my previous boyfriends, everyone.

I was angry then. But maybe he's right.

And the thing is.... I don't even know if I WANT to glue the pieces back. Maybe I want them to fall to the ground so I can see, once and for all, the rawness underneath.

She might be ugly. She might be mad. She might be brilliant. She might be unlovable.

Where is love? Is it in the pieces, the glue, or the underneath? I'm too scared to find out.

XO

S

Dandelion Wine: A story of genetics

2012-05-08T07:54:00.002-04:00

I grew up not knowing my father. He was around, sometimes... in and out like the tide that called to him from far off shores. But his absences were so many and lasted for so long that I never remembered what he looked like. I remember visualizing him as Kris Kristofferson or Lee Majors.

When he'd visit us, I'd fall in love with him all over again. Like my mother. And when he'd leave, I mourned in my own way. Closed myself off to people. Retreated to a safe place in my mind. Retreated into books and poetry.

When I was seventeen I found out he'd remarried and had a baby. A boy. My Brother Talmadge James.

He invited me down south for a visit with his new family. I remember being excited. And full of shame... because my mother, my sweet eccentric mother, was ultimately betrayed by his new life.

The flight was bumpy. And when I got off the plane in southern land I found him, his bright green eyes, through what seemed like an endless sea of people.

His eyes told me the story of a thousand days. He wasn't expecting me. He was expecting a little girl. I'd somehow disappointed him.

When we arrived at his small apartment I met my stepmother and my baby brother. It was awkward and all I wanted to do was go home.

They'd decided to give me their bedroom for my stay. I unpacked my things, wondering how on earth I could be connected to these strangers.

And then I opened the top drawer of my father's nightstand.

There was a dog eared copy of Dandelion Wine.

I looked up and my dad was standing in the doorway.

"It's my favorite book," he said.

I quietly went to my open suitcase and pulled out my own copy. The book I read and re-read. My safe place. A story I'd used in order to escape my own life.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said.

I'm not ready

2012-05-06T11:21:00.003-04:00

Last weekend I went to pick up my grandmother to take her to church. She's so frail now. 95 years old and unable to do the simplest things. I've tried to convince her to go to an assisted living facility, but she won't go.

I went to get her early, because I knew she wouldn't be ready. She wasn't. Half dressed she answered the door.

I looked at her. Pale. Thin. A shadow of her former self.

"Let's get you dressed, Gram," I said as I closed the door behind me. Her small apartment was too warm. It smelled like stale crackers.

I moved her toward her bedroom and she stopped me. I turned around and she wrapped her arms around me, leaned her head on my shoulder and said, "I'm not ready, Suzy,"

"I know," I said, trying to make my voice as cheery as possible, "That's why I came early."

She looked at me, puzzled.

Then I understood.

"You mean you're not read to die?" I asked.

She started to cry and nodded her head. She was shaking. It wasn't just fear that was evident in her eyes. It was terror. My grandmother is terrified to die.

What I wanted to do was to run screaming from her apartment. Run and never look back.

But I didn't. I hugged her for a long time and I said, "Well.... none of us have a choice. We all have to die. Why not think of it as going home instead?"

She nodded her head again, but what I sensed from her was defeat. What did she want me to do? Rescue her?

It's the fear that hurts the most. I'd rescue her if I could. I would.

You CAN get there from here: On Publishing

2012-04-25T13:14:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am. I know I've been a terrible blogger. And there really is NO good excuse for that. But I do want to share with you some things I've learned over the past year.

If you write, and you believe in your work. If you are persistent and professional throughout your query process. If you learn how to temper fearlessness with humility, nothing will stop you. Press on.

A quick timeline of events for me (the writer me) this year:

February, 2011: I sign with my amazing agent Anne Bohner
May, 2011: We put my MS THE WITCH OF LITTLE ITALY out on submission to publishers.
May-June, 2011: An editor at Saint Martin's Press requested revisions.

Summer 2011: My writing friend, Loretta Nyhan and I, finish a project. We show it to our agents. Our agents go CRAZY for it. We are stunned and surprised. We revise the novel: I'LL BE SEEING YOU.

September 2011: Four Book Deals In One Day. No joke. Saint Martin's Press bought THE WITCH OF LITTLE ITALY, and another novel. AND Mira Harlequin bought I'LL BE SEEING YOU and another novel.

Much screaming and dancing all around. Then I realized I'd have to publish under two different names: Suzanne Palmieri, and Suzanne Hayes. I don't mind. It's sort of cool.

Anyway....

Fall and Winter 2011: Write, revise, edit. Write, revise, edit.

March 2011: I'LL Be Seeing You is sold to FRANCE!

April 2011: The Witch of Little Italy is sold to ITALY!

And that brings us to this month.

Two years ago I was a girl with a few novels under her bed (and one I thought could be good...) but I had no idea how to navigate the waters of publishing.

Last week I was a girl with four book deals meeting my marketing people in NYC.

It happens.

Persistence, Patience. and Professionalism. That's what you need. Oh, and a kick ass story.

Please comment with any questions you might have. I'm so excited to be able to write this post, and even more excited to give hope to all you guys who might be out there in the trenches.

Just So We're Clear

2012-02-24T09:09:00.000-05:00

Hey. You.

The Boy who said "I Do..."

Clear headed, practical, handsome, respectable you.

What were you thinking? (Drinking?) when you decided on me?

Crazy, fragile, broken, stubborn, anxious me.

It wasn't my height, right?
Or my hair... tame it if you dare- hair?

It wasn't my yelling throwing slamming ways? my lost and empty days? my propensity for flight?

no, no, no

it was the night.

in blanket darkness where the crazy works so well.
and our bodies speak in languages our mouths don't know
and rain can come and go
on rooftops here or there
because sorrow is at bay
and all the terror gone
the moon rose in your eyes

just so we're clear.

For you

2012-02-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

There was this little girl. And she loved the world all around her.

Smoke filled days. Paper lanterns in the summer, cherry tree to cherry tree hung

with laughter of those hippies.

Her father let her taste the beer

he held in his carpenter hands. She held it in her mouth too long, because it was his breath, his sweat, his smelly socks and woodshave ways.

All the warmth around her. Chlorine in her nose. Bells on their toes. 1970's summers don't last.

In the bathtub she is older now.

Coloring the world behind her eyes with memories of then. Reaching back to then. Conjuring the dirt roads and Queen Anne's Lace.

There is no water in the bathtub. It's a renovated mess. There's no way to get out. Deep deep deep into the white ceramic tile.

You come home.

"What are you doing in the bathtub?" you ask.

Too attached, not here at all

2011-12-26T15:49:00.000-05:00

"It's hard being a grown up," he said.

He was sitting on the couch, slouching and looking more like a kid than his almost 40 year old self.

It was good to hear him say that, because he makes it look so easy.

I had to grow up first. At 22 I had a choice. Be a child raising a child, or separate that part of me altogether.

Even now, as my children play, and the puppy nips at my feet. Even now as the responsibility piles up and weighs me down... I don't pay attention to the child I used to be. I just do what I have to do.

So I suppose it's better, the way he's done it. Bit by bit. Letting pieces of him go each year. Not like me, I just threw it all up in one day.

And so I'm not attached. There's a part of me that doesn't even believe this is my life. That I'll wake tomorrow in my mother's bed, and curl next to her warm body...only my toes won't reach hers. I'm too little to be tall yet.

It's night and I have a fever. This whole life has been a fever dream. She's got Vick's and a tall glass of ice cold juice.

"Shhh," she says, "Mommy's here."

Only she's not here, and I'm the mommy.

It's hard being a grown up. Harder still when you have one foot squarely in your past.

Lunch With Jane

2011-12-09T19:35:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago I was privileged to have lunch with Jane Green. We met in Westport, and I as I held a table for us in a busy restaurant, I looked with admiration at the other lunching women gathered there, with perfect hair and clean iphones.

I felt pasty, and nervous. As though I'd walked into a world in which I did not belong. Now, usually I'm not the nervous type. But meeting Jane Green? An author I read and admire? This was not a normal situation.

And then there she was. She breezed in, face flushed, dressed in writerly clothes. Hair held back with inviting wisps escaping in all the right ways. I'm sure I looked at her with a kind of solid desperation, and that's how she recognized me.

Warm does not begin to describe her. Earth mother writing Goddess? Yes, that's closer. After my initial groupie dithering, we began to talk. We talked about her stories and my stories. About our characters and how we write.

And then we talked about yarn, and cooking, and gardens. Before I knew it I was sharing my life with her. Details that I hold back. But you see... Jane was immediately a safe place. A writer's haven.

Too soon we had to leave. I didn't want to go. I wanted to linger in that safe place and make sure I soaked up every detail so I could revisit it when I needed it later on.

She said I was fearless. I fell in love.

If you have not yet read a Jane Green novel, you should. She weaves stories that steep you in atmosphere and explore the inner meaning of love and friendship. Pick up a book and get lost with Jane. There's no safer or lovelier place to be on the planet.

I'm not ready to let go of you

2011-11-03T07:38:00.000-04:00

What used to seem like forever is quickly coming to its natural end.

I've never been the kind of mother who ached for what was. I've always been eager to see you grow, and change, and attack the world with a ferocity that made me laugh when you were small. Only now I look at you in awe as you became a young woman. A determined, proud, beautiful young woman.

The person I've always wanted to be. How amazing you are, my Rose.

But I have to say, this last year, with your leaving imminent... I've been unable to shake the streaming slideshow in my head. The reliving of your childhood.

How your hand fit into mine. How you always wanted me to hold you. I can still see the betrayal in your eyes when I was pregnant with Tess and you were too big to hold. Do you remember? I took you swimming almost every sunny day that summer just so I could hold you, weightless in the water. Your wet hair clinging to my shoulder. Salty kisses. Your never ending chant: Mommy, mommy, mommy.

Each halloween costume, even the one you stole when you were 18 months old-- simply grabbed it from a lower rack and I didn't notice until I put you in the car seat. When did you leave the car seat? There you are in my head, a flip book of years as you grew older and taller than me.

I wasn't scared to be your mother. The moment you were born, I was born. I took you, all swaddled up and ran this marathon of life. And at every turn, I had the comfort of knowing that I was doing things so I could spend more time with you.

Time that slipped away. We've done okay.

Oh, babe. Please remember that even whey you fly, I'm still doing all of it in order to be there for you. And know that all this growing up can be cushioned by the fact that no matter how old you get, or how far you go, I'll always take you swimming.

And I'll hold you, weightless in the water... so close to me. I'll hold you and give you salty, mommy kisses.

XO
mommy

The Sticking Place

2011-11-01T13:58:00.000-04:00

We were in New York City and the lights made me feel like there was a dome over the earth. With a little space carved out for you and me.

You and me under the dazzling lights of modernity. Two people wandering around, aimless, attached at the shoulders by companionship. The knowing of you makes me love you more.

Alone is where I'm comfortable. I've made a home in alone. Books, yarn, watercolor. Soup, gardens, diaries. I've often wondered if that is why we found each other. Because we were so damned happy to be alone.

Only we're not alone, are we? We are together. That's the sticking place.

Stuff and Nonsense....

2011-10-27T13:15:00.000-04:00

So many things! Okay, first thing: Do you read my blog? And do you have your own blog? Why not add my new button? Grab the code right there on my sidebar and add it to your HTML widget. Then you can be a Lost Witch too!

Second: I had some professional photographs taken. What do you think?

And last but not least, I'm thinking of doing an interview series... Agents and Editors. Any questions you want to add to my list? Something you feel isn't covered in most interviews?

Okay, that's it!

XO
S

Photo Credit: Jammi York Photgraphy

"Mommy, mommy, mommy..."

2011-10-19T17:57:00.001-04:00

*photo of me and my Gracie last summer in Rockport Mass.

Grace wakes up in the night day that is early October mornings. She's found our bed (like she always does) in the middle of the night. I'm sure that's why my dreams improve... she steals in and snuggles close, as babies do, and sunshine pours into my abstract, anxiety riddled dreams.

I'm already getting ready for work. I leave early these days and come home late. I'd not seen her off to sleep the previous nights. It makes her waking up demand that much harder on my heart.

She's in the rumpled down comforter. She's warm and bathed in the orange glow of the salt lamp night light we keep on for them. (When they all leave us, I'm sure we'll keep it lit. The ghosts of their little selves should not be allowed to trip on the way to our bed.)

She wakes and sees me in the closet getting dressed. Fumbling in the half dark with a pair of too small tights.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy..." she whispers. But it's a whisper laced with dreadful need.
I toss the tights and go toward the bed. I have to be careful not to get too close, because if my head finds her sweet soft, still baby fine hair, I'll never leave. I'll stay with her entangled. Mother and daughter. A perfect Picasso.

I give her my hand, though she's straining to pull me into her arms.

"I love you,"I say.
"I love you too, mommy. Come back to bed. It's still night."
"No, darling. It's early morning and mommy has to go to work."
She lets my hand go without a fight. She understands it's no use. Mommy and work are the same thing.

And I didn't want to let her hand go. I wanted to scoop her up and run away to a place where time stops and she never gets bigger. Not forever... just a few years of make up love. Make up mornings. Make up snoozy, lazy, entangled rainy days.

I'll be home after she's asleep. Another day gone. I miss you Gracie.

Love mommy,

To Ozzi (Uncle) Mike on your first day in Heaven

2011-10-10T19:41:00.001-04:00

(A Eulogy)

Dear Ozzi Mike,

The day after you died was a beautiful day here on earth. The sun was shining in that New England October way. You remember, an Indian Summer sort of sun. Blue skies and white clouds hovered over us. I could practically feel you in the air all around.

And though I don't know exactly what you encountered on your first day in heaven, I think I can safely guess a few things you might have been doing.

I'm sure you were greeted by your sisters and brothers. I'm sure your mother and father were on hand to congratulate you on your amazing one hundred and five year run.

And then, there she was, your lady, your wife. Carmel the beautiful. And you didn't miss a beat, did you? You grabbed her, young again both of you, and you waltzed her right through the gates. Thirty years is a long time to wait holding a dance card. But you always knew she'd be there. And she was.

I hope, as you danced, you turned around. Pulled by all of us down here missing you. Did we warrant just a momentary glance? I hope so.

Because...

Look, there are your sons. Both like you in different ways. Michael, who learned from you to love the outdoors and who shared your unwavering faith. And Robert, whose artistic brilliance and dapper dress were surely a hand-me-down from watching you. You were quiet in your parenting, but substantial none the less. Your loyalty and responsibility are qualities that shine in them as well. Robert, at twenty three years old, took on the responsibility of helping raise a child that was not his. (And you, in turn became my surrogate grandfather with a grace I'll always thank you for) and Michael? He's followed and supported nieces and nephews over the years with a fierce yet subtle presence.

And look, do you see your nieces and nephews, grand nieces and grand nephews, and all the great great Grands? All grown or growing and all accomplished in their own way. You were always there for all of us. Always the first (with Uncle Tony) to be at the hospital if one of us was sick or needed you. Always around at holidays with an envelope and a kiss.

All of us, even the littlest, have fond memories of you. But I'd like to take a moment to share a few of mine. Because you must be very busy up there... and I'm a selfish girl who wants to make you remember me too.

When I was just a little girl, I watched you garden. You had a path out in the back yard of your house on Evergreeen, that was made of bottles inserted into the ground so that their spherical bottoms sparkled up from the manicured grass. There was magic there.

And when I came to your house on Thursday evenings, you and Auntie Carmel always had things for me to do. Things like drawing perfect patterns on light boxes and coloring in enormous coloring books, bigger than me. I was scared, when I was small, of being away from my mother. But not at your house. It was safe there.

And when you were the director of the choir at St. Brenden's Church, you asked my mother and I to join. We did... and the music that we made.. it made my own heart soar. Ozzi, your voice brought so many people joy.

And when I got older, and Rosy was born. You supported me with a quiet understanding that spoke volumes of your commitment to family. Sunday dinners at my grandmother's were punctuated by you and little Rosy watching TV together. And you never got mad when she woke you as you dozed. You only smiled and nodded at whatever she wanted to tell you in her little girl way.

When I got married, you told me how proud you were. How you approved of Bill and thought he was the perfect choice for me.

You've always done that. Said things at the right times. A quiet man with loud things to give.

The things you gave! Just by your actions you showed us all how much life had to offer. At all stages. You paved the way for all of us to chase our dreams no matter how long it takes, or how old we are. Possibilities are endless because of you.

Your sister Fay, my grandmother is the last one left. The last of all Rosalina's children. Watch over her, Ozzi. She's lonesome here.

I'd like to say what most people say at times like this. I'd like to say Rest In Peace. But I can't. Not when it comes to you. Peace, yes. I wish you peace. Freedom from the body that jailed your incessant movement in these last few years. And peace to be with the ones you've loved and lost and now found again.

But rest? Oh no. Not you. Stay busy. Maybe you can help those angels and saints up there. I'm sure they could use what you have to give. You are a builder. Help them, Ozzi. Help them create a better world for us down here. I know you can, because you proved, here on earth, that nothing is impossible.

10/2011

Honeymoon

2011-10-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

On the sailboat, with the blue Caribbean stretching out in front of us and behind, the captain listened to an endless game of cricket, and we lingered. Five days blurred by.

No shower, no restless nights, no crying children..yet. The future was the sea and it was beautiful.

You stretched out on the hull of the boat, looking like a Kennedy. I stayed safe on the deck, preening in my two piece bathing suit. Royal blue with light blue piping like the one I wore in high school-- only smaller.

The stars out there.
The deserted beaches and jade green rocks. We brought them home, but they dulled when they figured out that they'd been stolen.

Did we dull too? Me and you? There's a busyness about the days since then that reminds me of stolen things. Hurried and hushed, panicked and hidden. We've done so much in so little time. But what have we lost?

Our words speak volumes. "I miss you." "How was your day?"

My day was lonesome. My day was away from you.

Who and what would we have been if we'd never left the sea? If we'd stayed on that beach and left the rocks alone. Let them live there with us, visiting them in their own habitat so they could keep their shine?

I can't remember what we talked about or even where we went. But I remember salty kisses. And I remember that cricket game.

Only I don't remember who won, or how it ended.