Of How I Bit Back

“Death doesn’t frighten me. It’s what comes after. [Besides, some of my best friends are dead, and they hunger for stories].” ~ Terry Pratchett [and me]

 

My world remains full
of what you left me—bones
on my altar, books and stones,
the calaveras that grinned on my handfasting
cake (you weren’t here for that)

I miss you…

There are new things
on my altar and living—hearts
from friends, a bird skull
whose flesh and feathers fly
to you (its grin and bone
stay with me)

I miss you…

Newest, on my altar, wild offerings
for you—peanuts and (not so shiny) metal gifts
from a blue jay, leaves and petals and lavender
and rosemary from a witch made of gentle fire,
a shot of spirits (I will never forget)

I miss you…

The world remains full of what you left me, but
there are new things on my altar and living—
life bit, bit, bit… chunks out of my chest, but
I’m fighting, fighting, fighting back…

next year, when The Veil thins
again, when Soul and Flesh get to glimpse
into each other’s mirrors, I’ll share new
stories, Little Brother, of how I bit back,
of how I won, of how I’ll always remember

I miss you…

 

the wee notes…
– last night, I spent a considerable amount of time cleaning the altar where I keep my Little Brother’s ashes, listening to his favorite music, speaking the tales of everything of importance (or trivial but humorous) that has happened to me this year. It’s how I’ve celebrated the life of my Dead for as long as I can remember, how I will add to their memory for a long as I breathe.

 

He Was Ridiculous… and Amazing

I enjoy hand-stitching for the same reasons I adore hammers, the colors red and black, Terry Pratchett’s writing, and the sky on nights when the moon is darkest. I won’t tell you why I love those things. Not because it might creep you out—I’d probably delight in that—I won’t tell you why because we don’t need to know each other marrow deep to be friends. If we do, then we really aren’t.

The idea of jumping off a bridge because everyone else is doing it disgusts me. But if the day (or wild night) comes when jumping is the only way forward, I shall leap into the precipice without bitching about it—my thoughts, legs, and spine must be all cat.

I’ve landed on my feet, and broken a few things before rolling with the punches takes hold of the metaphor. I’m prejudiced against welcomed stupidity. People who hurt others because they know they can get away with it should spend a lot of time on their knees being thankful to a curly-haired one-eyed woman who smoked a pipe.

I write because not doing so would kill me slowly (or someone else). I love for similar reasons. Today, I woke up in a world where my best friend was alive. Now he is dead. And I’m angry. Because the world is a bit emptier and it didn’t have to be.

The whole world will miss you, my bird of terrible feathers. And I will miss you most.

One Halloween, when we were still teenagers, he dressed up as… something covered in fake chickens. I remember asking, “What in the name of Hades’ fiery balls are you?” He said, “I’m a sexy beast.” When puzzlement showed that I couldn’t follow his logic, he added, “You know, ‘Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.’” He was that kind of ridiculous, that kind of amazing…

May your soul fly high on laughter and bad jokes, you sexy beast…