The Morning After

I find myself having coffee with the ghost of my son's wife this morning. "Mommy" to the children. She isnae here for me, but her presence is strong and oft-honored here. Big Sis is quite proud of looking "Just like Mommy." I donae believe Mommy is here for me, but I havenae a doubt there are things Mommy wants to say to me.

"All except for the dimples," I remind Mommy's beautiful daughter. "Big Brother got her beautiful dimples. You got the rest of her." And indeed she did. Big Sis really is the visage of the dancing beauty my life niece and I saw beneath the mobid obesity of her life when they danced merrily to their favorite HS chick flicks. Mommy sincerely loved to dance, straight from the heart of her youth. YS even learned how to dance during Mommy and Daddy's courtship. Did they really have to learn the STBX Waltz? Not mine to sort. . .

This morning finds The Ghost of Mommy and I nostalgicating over the evening YS and I were attempting to draw her out of their new apartment where her agoraphobia (?) was becoming acute. We pushed Big Bro's stroller to a nearby park, lost in grown-up profundity over the "Therapy Funeral" I had held for my own recovery through psychotherapy. Was it a good option for her?

Did we take that walk in 2013 or 2014? That detail doesnae feel very important just now. The most certain detail to my current memory is that by this time it was painfully evident the "Therapy Funeral" theories hadnae jumped the hurdle from pop psychology to the Universities of Psychology. They hadnae even jumped the data input hurdle to the internet. With the psycotic diversions of my damaged memory, I couldnae even **prove** that "Therapy Funeral" wasnae one of the "False Memories" which have been the curse of my broken life. There is ample proof that I really did visit the Shawnee National Forest that tearful summer, but? ? ? Did I imagine the entire "Therapy Funeral" in which I plied radical acceptance to the painfully simple fact that, if I wanted to heal, I couldnae look to my birth family for support or help of any kind. I was purely, **simply** on my own. We plied active safeguards against the delusion that the birth family would cease to be a source of many future problems and the probability of being able to change my DNA. The "Therapy Funeral" **simply** meant I was on my own for the healing. No family support available.

I donae believe I explained the yaddahs of those blahs very well. I still feel pretty invalidated in that branch of my therapy. Did it really happen? Should I have **simply** helped the troubled young mother hold "A Therapy Funeral?"

Sorting. . . Again I wish for a rapid cycling icon and settle for the median.

The wrap around porch is almost finished. The front stairs are beautiful. The roof frame is nearly complete on 3 sides. The more porch loops we walk, the more we love our porch. The chickens love it, too. The hens and the poults are fully aware of each other and stillnae mixing, but the young rooster, Foghorn, seems to be mediating the flock increase with gentle ease. I am beginning to wonder if he will lead the poults to the coop when they are ready for the move. They are beautifil little ladies, but I do wish they'd quit shitting on the guest room window frame. Ya might wanna watch your step while you're making your porch loops, too. Bienvenidos a la casa pollera. Welcome to the chicken house.