Fading like a Flower

I took the kids out to the gravesite last weekend to say hi to Grandpa and Papa. The sky was overcast and I got some great shots of the various stages of decay of the graves, as well as the fading silk flowers that try so hard to live forever. I was struck with the melancholy of the irony: mourners, filled with love, place bright, beautiful silk flowers. The do last for a long time, but eventually the colour starts to fade, the become unassembled or actually start to fray at the edges.

The graves are the same, even though methods of burial have obviously changed over the years. Once tall, haughty stones, they have lost their importance as they sink, and lean. The sealant on the stone gives way and the actual concrete starts to deteriorate. Some grave beds were actually caving in! Not a safe place for anyone, let alone my children.

I kept them in the van against their protests, and drove from line to line, scrutinizing the dates, the flowers, the state of decay. Who takes care of this place, anyways? I wonder . I may even make a half-assed attempt to figure it out. In the meantime I have a quirky and moody collection of various states of silk deterioration. A perfectly normal way to spend the afternoon...

Or not.

It's ok it's alright

Oh pears. Rough skinned, mottled unsightly shaped fruits of the barren tree. Rising above a leafless branch, at least twenty of these golden globes sprout, as an afterthought. Jen's farm land is overrun with bears too, at this time of year I realized as I sat halfway up the apple tree looking down and the huge pile of fruit-poop below me and the claw marks, half eaten apples on the branch in front of me.

Fall is a time for joy. A chance to reminisce of a summer past, a chance to prepare for winter. Cooking, family, education. For me, however, Autumn marks the descent into winter. Endless rain, passionate storms, and a biting frost. The ocean will swell and rebel, the fields will flood. We will undoubtedly go broke before December and my Mother will try to call. Tug-of-war with the children and the ex, and finally the heartbreaking need to be accepted over the holidays. My heart beats fast and panicked and I drink too much Irish Cream in my coffee. Constipation.

It's not all bad, this time around. I am now on Rispiridone and Effexor and each day I feel a little more useful in my quest for success in this life. I am balancing, for now. One day at a time. My perfectly patient doctor praises the little things and I will too. I am not the gasping female languidly morbid on my psychiatrist's kidney shaped couch, I am the rallying protester outside the office.

Fire it up, fall is here.