Nothing Twice by Wislawa Szymborska

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class this summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needles fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I still hear her laughter

I wish I could talk to her about my college roommates. I wish I could talk to her about anything.

I'm so afraid that if I stop constantly trying to relive our memories, I'm going to forget her. It's been two months, and I feel like I've forgotten so much.

Eighteen

In three hours and forty-four minutes (that is, 3:34am), I will never again be eighteen. Pretty profound-sounding, huh?

I've said this to a few people, but it bares repeating: on one hand, it feels like I've been eighteen for a long time, but on another, I don't feel old enough to be nineteen. Does that make sense?

Since turning eighteen - oh, that disasterous, glorious day - I've been to two states and six countries (California, New Zealand, Australia, Washington, Denmark, Norway and Germany, respectively). A lot of people have died, Grandma's being the one effecting me the most, followed closely by Kelsi's.

There are a lot of things I still haven't done. I've never drunk beer (not that I want to, although it is funny how being nineteen really only marks being able to drink in Canada); I've never successfully driven a stick shift for more than, oh, thirty feet - again, not that I'm in a hurry. I've never had a boyfriend or even been kissed. I guess I should be patient on those ones, too.

This is the first year I really haven't wanted anything for my birthday. And I guess that's a good thing, because it shows how much I already have. :) I have a lot to be grateful for.

For one last time, eighteen,
Andrea

Laughing

I'd just like to personally thank my awesome friends, Sheila and Kari, who made me laugh so hard tonight, with help from my cell phone and Facebook, respectively. It has been a long time since I laughed so hard. It was so much fun.

Thanks for making my entire day.
Andi

Insert Catchy Title Here

I just keep praying

Please, God, don't let anyone else I know die this year.

And maybe, all things considered, it's a selfish prayer. Because when it's your time to go, it's your time to go - simple as that. But when you look at everyone who's died this year - Grandma, Sheila's grandma, Aunt Ellen, Kelsi Cook, my mom's cousin, my mom's co-workers - it kind of hits you hard. Being the writer that I am, I'm cursed with the What If? game. I dare to fabricate hideous stories in my head of car accidents and hospital beds and other such things, even though they are the last things on Earth I want to happen.

Just one at a time, please.

Grandma

According to the new Britanica-Webster, one of the definitions of miss is "to discover or feel the absence of." I probably couldn't say it better myself. I used to throw the word miss around casually, but I never really felt it until Grandma died.



A lot of people have never met their grandparents, or only see them on holidays and special occasions. Grandma lived with us, so I saw her about three or four times a day for nearly half of my life. Dealing with the lack of her presence, the void where she used to exist, is the hardest thing for me right now.



I miss seeing her ball of white hair over her recliner when I walk in to give her her meds, or tell her the ball game is on or that dinner's ready. I miss her calling me, "dearheart" and painting her nails and driving her up Mud Mountain Dam Road. I miss her soft skin, her refusal to believe that Chester was anything but good, and the way she never admited she was less than five feet tall. I miss seeing her fanatisism for sports (especially Detroit), showing her my new clothes, singing "Baby It's Cold Outside" with me in my car, and that little giggle she'd get just before sharing something she knew she shouldn't. I miss playing solitaire on the floor of her old place, eating all the M&Ms in sight, and watching Mrs. Doubtfire together. I miss the train rides to Santa Barbara, her paying me to eat something I didn't like, and playing Gin Rummey til one in the morning.



I don't like having to pick out an outfit for her to wear in the coffin. I don't like bagging up her old clothes and organizing the hangers by color. As much as I like having her jewelry, I'd much rather see it on her.



I know that - cliched as it may be - death is a part of life. I know also that 86 years is a long time to live. I can remember having realizations in the past that she was pretty old and that death was a possibility. But that doesn't make it any easier. She was always healthy, and she'd been in the hospital before, so I wasn't too worried when they brought her to the hospital last Monday, the 19th. Twenty-six hours later, she was gone. It all happened so fast.



I keep remembering small, odd little moments of her. One was a few years ago, when she gave Josh Schipper a "lucky penny" at WaMu. I think she was also trying to set us up, because she kept telling him all these great things about me. Speaking of that, there was another similar time at the movie theater, when she started telling the owner a bunch of nice things about me, too. And when I told her how I had coffee with a friend I met at Green River who was home briefly from WSU, she giggled and said, "So, you had a date!" even though it wasn't. And when I got all dressed up for the Mardi Gras dance, decked out in Gracie's black wig, dark make-up, and Grandma's green fishnets and big gold belt, she called me a "Femme Fatale." Little stuff like that keeps jumping into my brain at the most random - or maybe not so random - times.



I wish she could see me go to college. Well, I guess she did at Green River, but I never even showed her my diploma. She always wanted to go to college. And I never showed her my Norway pictures. But I guess those "I wishes" and "I nevers" don't really matter now, do they?



I never told anyone this, except for Sheila recently, but after she had a mini-stroke (called a TIA) on October 15, 2004, I used to check on her every night to make sure she was still breathing. I had found her after the stroke, so I felt like she was my responsibility, in a way.



I guess I'm doing better than I was. I didn't cry at the funeral, or when people give me hugs or I read sympathy cards. But tears aren't the only form of grief. I think writing is a way for me to grieve, or at the very least, vent. So even if no one reads this, it's still probably helped me. And if you have read this, thanks.



Andrea