People talk all of the time about love at first sight. Something about the way a person moves through space, their demeanor, that makes an individual fall in love with them. I’ve always taken that concept a bit further and wondered if it were possible to love someone you’ve never met – and I mean truly, unequivocally love LOVE someone. I’m not talking about loving someone the way a school girl loves a celebrity they will most likely never meet. I’m talking real, real love.
So, is it possible to love someone you’ve never met.. and someone you’re never going to meet – well, at least not in this lifetime. Is it possible to truly love someone who died before you lived?
I’d like to say it is possible…
My Grandfather, Thomas, goofing around in his wife’s nightgown.
Yesterday I checked my email to find a forwarded message from my mother. The text was short and sweet, she wanted me to see a few pictures of my grandfather that I had never before seen. Photos she had never before seen either. The way I felt when I opened them is hard to put to words.
I have demons. And they chase me. I roam the halls of my life afraid. Afraid that around each corner I take one will leap out at me. That they will drag me down. That they will take me to hell. That they will devour my soul. No matter how hard I try to hide behind time, or new habits, or my current life, they always find me. No matter how hard I try to disguise who I am within this new life of mine they still smell me out. They know that deep inside of the person I have become lies all the parts of me- both past and present. Both good and bad. They know that dwelling within the subterranean depths of who I am today lies a scared, sad little girl who still yearns to be taken away. They know that my shell is just a covering. No matter what I do to distance myself from my demons they always come back to haunt me.
And so I run. But always they are there. Keeping pace. Watching. Waiting. Orchestrating their next attack on my psyche. Sometimes they wait for me in the bottom of a glass of wine. They linger in my thoughts during moments of self doubt and depreciation. Other times they reside in the most benign of spaces. I can find them in old places. I can hear them in old songs. I can smell them in a summer breeze. I can see them in the mirror. I can feel them from inside.
(Artwork Title: “Dear Parents at SandyHook” -Jeremy Collins. Click this image to purchase a copy of this exceptional piece of art by Jeremy Collins – which he made after hearing the devastating news – HIS SHARE of the proceeds will be donated to the families affected.)
I do not know where to start this post. I do not know how to express, with my words, the utter heartbreak I feel for the parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends to those children and adults who lost their lives yesterday at Sandyhook Elementary School, in Newtown, CT – a town not far very away from my home. The absolute devastation I feel for all of those involved is something I do not know how to accurately portray. I do not know how to express precisely the complete sorrow I feel for the community, for our society in general. Continue reading
I once knew a woman. She was wonderful. She liked to have her hair perfectly done up with lots of hairspray, bobby-pins and sometimes even a matching bow. She was witty, and funny, and sometimes, frankly, offensive. She was marvelous. She was perfect. She was my grandmother.
Her name was Anna Marie Varrato Lewis. She was born in Wallingford, Connecticut. She grew up in Pennsylvania, the oldest daughter of a coal miner. She came from a very large Italian-American family. She had five brothers and five sisters – a total of eleven children in all.
(My Grandpa and Grandma 1953. I’m not sure who the boy is in the front.)