8/1 The Book of August

Last year Robin, my husband, my love, my soul mate suggested that I should write The Book of August.  In the 23 years we’ve been together, he knows how hard August is for me.  Initially it was torture, but with time it became tolerable.  Some things are always with you and burying a beloved daughter is one of them.

So many additional family problems have occurred in the past 9 years because The spider wouldn’t control her avarice or vengeance .  Poisoning mom’s mind against me was not only necessary to obtain mom’s signature on a new will but apparently it was secret fun for her too.   After mom died 7 years ago I spun into a terrible depression and the disappointments that followed had a cumulative effect.

So in July of last year I prepared to detail my emotions and thoughts on those important anniversaries.  I did the initial work to publish this blog,  but it all blew up in my face on the 1st.  A simple thing, I went shopping and ran into an old acquaintance–someone on the fringe of the family.  It was something she shared with me that shocked me back into the mad-house reality of our family.

My mom had a toy poodle, Muffin.   She  had been a gift as a pup from one of mom’s sisters, BABS.  All of us girls knew mom’s explicit wish that when she died, Muffin was to go to BABS.  What I found out that day last August 1st, was confirmation that The spider intended to have Muffin euthanized when mom was gone.  While mom laid dying in a nursing home, The spider was planning to kill her dog- a healthy, middle-aged, sweet-tempered “dog-God”  that mom adored!  Fortunately, someone came forward and begged for Muffin (BABS was apparently denied her) and so she got a new home and lived contentedly for several years.  If you don’t respect a simple last wish of your own mother, what do you respect?

The confrontation once again with how cruel The spider could be and yet how she could always crawl back into the center of her web to safety sent me into a tailspin that evening.  More than a few tequilas and maybe even some Killians later, firecrackers ignited my synapses.  Skipping ahead now to morning because I’m not quite ready to detail all of the events that I remember and those that I don’t,….I’ll just say it was a horrendous mess to clean up the next day.  Broken glass, mirror, plates.  I recalled then how a therapist many years before had once advised me to go home and break some dishes so that I might let go of the anger of August.  I had recoiled at her suggestion.  How ludicrous!   Well I can tell you it is ludicrous, and yes I did it.  Intentionally.  But the worst of it was our art collection.  I broke some wonderful pieces.  Things that I loved dearly.  Things that artists had put their hearts and souls into making, and I loved them enough to buy them and take them home and make a special place for them, so that I might feed off their nourishment.  I broke one of my own favorite clay sculptures too.  Fortunately I stopped, but not before Robin was too saddened for words.

One Response to “8/1 The Book of August”

  1. Oh, my poor dear friend, I read this and I am in tears, heart-broken that I didn’t know what you were going through. John & I kind of withdrew from everything & everybody after the fire, his accident, his mother’s illness & death and my illness. I wish I could go back in time and call you once in awhile, just to let you know that we were thinking about you & Robin (because we were!).

    Peace, Love & Joy,
    Joyce

    Like

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