Big talk, not sure how long I can sustain it. I saw something yesterday and it opened a door. A chance to chase away a bit of the grief, a toe hold to begin the climb out of this hollow, this grim and cavernous world that is life without Grandpa. I should preface this by saying it is entirely possible that I am the only one who is able to find the laughter in this through the heavy layers of grief. But I hope, I hope, I hope, I hope that it gets through to a few of the people I know are suffering so many miles from here. So here goes.
I was looking over a report of the ways that people arrive at this here blog. There were huge numbers of folks logging on by jus typing in the url, meaning they know me, know this blog and choose to check in. Then there were folks looking to find out things about drying clothing, particularly people from England…sorry no dice. But the thing I saw that glimmered like a piece of quartz in a pile of gravel was this:
1 11.11% removing cat piss from wood floor
I love this. They didn’t say feline urine or waste. They said piss. Piss. I love that. And certain people who grew up in the basement at 816, or walked the halls above that basement know that I had a very special relationship with cat piss. Other people who know about this: the people that taped my ankles before track practice – I’m sorry, the people that slept over and witnessed the glory that was
Skittles’ chamber of piss my closet.
So really, I suppose this isn’t something that reads as incredibly illuminating or grief diminishing , yet for me, it was a gentle tickle at my side, that for a moment allowed me to let go. No more tense shoulders, no more clenched jaw. Just a smile for the “This’ll make a great story someday” realization, and a “Better them than me” attitude about the cat piss remover seekers.
Excuse me, I think I’ll go let Barnaby out.