The Ability to Be...

It is November. You know, the time we are expected to give thanks, to show how grateful we are, to embrace the warm and fuzzy. Social media is a buzz kill on this topic. My timeline is laden with memories of daily grateful posts from years gone by. I mean, I've said it. I've written it. I've added the obligatory "look how wonderful my life is" pic. It is all there for the world to see.

So. I am not doing it this November. Not repeating. Not restating. Just, resharing. Thanks, Facebook for the "that was easy" button option on this topic.

To clarify, I AM grateful. I do love my life. I have a great kid, fabulous friends, and my businesses make me happy on the daily. I have many, many reasons to be grateful this year. I sold a house, moved my Dad closer to me so I can spend more time with him, moved into my dream house, and got a new car (used car... new used car). My dance company is thriving, I love being an adjunct English prof and tutor at the community college, and life is G-O-O-D.

I guess what I am asking is why do I need to share it? Why do I need to post photos, restate the obvious, join the influx of the masses of the grateful this November? Well, the obvious answer is, I don't. I don't need to try to explain how all of this wonderfulness in my existence is tinged with a sadness that only the melodramatic artist in me can embrace.

I can't explain how leaving the Croghan house yesterday brought me to tears. How I wandered room to room, looking for the ghost of my Mother as she stood at Madi's bedroom window on Christmas eve in 1999 and half-whispered into the snowy night, "Remember this night and its magic, Rhonda. It will be gone too soon". I struggle to share how I peered into the overgrown backyard and tilted my head to one side, listening for the tinkle of giggling toddlers as they ran in the grass, tried to drive the Barbie jeep, or splashed in the plastic wading pool. My heart was heavy as I retraced the narrow steps, imagining a heavy headed and sleepy Madi in my arms as I carefully counted each step, knowing my most precious cargo could not be dropped or wakened from her slumber.

I wanted to walk into that living room and see my Dad and Madi strumming on guitars and singing loudly as the television buzzed in the background. I wanted to shake my head, turn off the television, pop a squat on the couch, and smile ear to ear at their antics.

Instead, I checked closets for strangely important long-lost objects and carefully closed doors behind me one last time. I ran my hand along the faded wall paper I recall my Gram Alice putting up with such painstaking pride and care. I'm sure it will be gone, destroyed, unappreciated.

Change is good, I know. Embracing the new, feeling blessed and grateful and lucky is how we move forward. Still, there is a smudge in the fresh ink of newness. A thumbprint squarely embedded on the fresh page of  Moving On. It won't be erased or crossed out. I see it, clearly. I feel it, deeply. Grateful? I am. For the memories.