Processing VI

My youngest son has been dead for 8 days now. The southern great plains has a new river, springing from the peak of this dusty hilltop. Out, out, brief candle. . . You are missed, my gentle and compassionate philosopher. I donae believe I have ever cherished a more tolerant, more loving, nor more compassionate soul than this stuttery son. Even when he had the need to speak harshly, there was gentle hope in his tones. You are dearly missed, beloved son.

Tomorrow the 3 children, hubs and I will make the three hour drive south to the metroplex where both parents and the two younger children were born and raised. I havenae liked the town since it boomed into one of the world's most fashionable zip codes which is still booming helter skelter. When I first wandered there in August, 1977, it was a great place to be poor. I like the simplicity of contented poverty. We get by with a little help from our friends and the produce of pure passion is far greater to my senses than the produce of social glamour. Now it is one of the most expensive cities in the world and. . . Yucko bucko How wide a berth can I steer around this human atrocity? In my road life, I work pretty hard to avoid tourist traps. The slow realization that I was living in a tourist trap was unpalatable to my senses and I increasingly hate going there. Driving there for my youngest son's funeral isnae feeling like the cherry on the sundae.

But ya gotta do what ya gotta do. The children need their closure and the reinforcement of the family bonds which live there.

The days since Hubs and I dropped the bombshell on the children and made a grand sandwich out of the shell shocked 6 year old until his first run of tears subsided have been a brand new experience for me. Are my nomadic senses finally comprehending the vague-to-me concept of home? Dunno. . . For sure, the gentle sharing of our grief has provided me with sensations foreign to my rootless life.