Tears From A Stone

Big Sis has been using the words, "My Mommy Died" far, far more often than the "I'm a big girl" she used to parrot before the tragedy. I am far from certain she knows what those words mean, but the inside of a 3 year old mind is even more mysterious than the skewed neural pathways of my broken brain's most repressed regions. The big for sure is that, with all due respect to a loving soul who did the best she could with the lousy hand she was dealt at birth, the loss of my son hurts even worse than the loss of my daughter-in-law. My attempts to be the grown-up with her continual parroting of the phrase broke down yesterday to the pouring out of grief that Daddy died, too. I miss my *baby* boy. Prayers in progress that the onslaught of grown-up emotions didnae whelm her too terribly. It was a fearsome gush.

Over the course of the whelming, Big Bro and I began a dialogue about the nature of anger responses to fear and loss. He has witnessed more than one of my infamous outbursts out of rage in defense of my open, bleeding and/or infected psychic wounds. I suspect the base legends of Smiley Kaserne and its host region have grown one or three of my pre-therapy outbursts into new Urban Myths by now. I really have sent NCO clubs full of horny GIs running for the safety of their preachers. I donae wish to release such a force on a 6 year old, nay even an identified boy bully. Nay even *I* will tempt the security forces of today's girl bullies. Well. . . Not much. . . Reflex can be a bear to manage. With empowerment comes responsibility, my empowered Barbie. Get up off your empowered victimhood and roll up those designer sleeves. Put some dings in those cutesy pictures on your manicure!

Correcting my politics now. . . Beehaving. . . Where's my walk-in medicine chest?

There be nary a doubt that raging is far, far easier than letting my heart beat true. I miss my baby boy.