Sunday, May 4, 2014


Sunflower, the blonde lab/greyhound/beautiful dog came into our lives in 2001, at a time when I was gaining a sense of self and high school kids still seemed mature. I had just gone through a breakup, my first “real” one, and I used talk of a new puppy to make conversation with the ex. (Sorry for using you, Sunny). My family had never had a dog before, the extent of our caregiving limited to fish, birds, and I confess, rodents. This was a huge step for us. Shortly after my sister, Linda, rescued Sunny from a shelter in Superior, she moved into a place that didn’t allow pets. So she pawned the little pup off on our family.  We quickly had to learn to bond with the canine world, no matter how much we loathed cleaning up messes, repairing furniture, and buying replacement shoes. She. Ate. Everything! The fancy living room chairs not really even meant for sitting? Eaten. The giant Alpaca pillow that was fuzzy and expensive? Eaten. Several pairs of glammed up dancing shoes belonging to my mom? Eaten. Her heavy-duty plastic kennel? Eaten. All the other things? Eaten.

But as annoyed as we were in the wake of her destructive behavior, we couldn’t help but love the almost-violent thrashing of her tail against the washing machine. Or the slobbery kisses that were supremely gross, yet wonderful at the same time. When I was sad, and in my adolescence and early adulthood, that was A LOT, Sunny would sit by my side and provide a comfort no one else could. This dog loved me and I would love this dog, even when she slept diagonal in the middle of the bed. Sunny wasn’t a cuddler, but her personality would have fooled you into believing otherwise. Her sweet demeanor and giddiness for going on walks and playing in the snow are traits I will miss the most. All you had to say was “You wanna…” and she knew that “go for a walk” were the next words that followed. You would try to spell T-R-E-A-T but Sunny knew what you were up to once you got to the R. And a bath? Fuhhhhgetaboutit.

If you’ve never had a dog you were close to, the pain that accompanies loss might seem insane to you. But it feels like a family member has gone. Someone you loved and cherished for several years is no longer physically present. But the sadness and hollow feeling inside go numb after a while, when it’s no longer feasible to shed tears day in and day out. Then you climb over all those obstacles of grief, those stages that work like clockwork, but in no set pattern. The anger, the guilt, the denial – they fade. And what remains? A beautiful memory of a beautiful dog who never once stopped loving for you for something you did or did not do or for who you were or were not. The love between a dog and a human is unconditional, and it’s true.

Sunflower, you will be sorely missed, but tenderly remembered for all of our days.

*This was first written to be posted after Sunflower passed in December 2013. Then, I was going to post it on her birthday in 2014. I never got around to it, for whatever reason. Since then, another family dog (Spirit) has passed away and is playing with Sunflower in Doggy Heaven. She is also missed, and judging by my timing, the post about Spirit will come in a few months.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Home Video Heartache

On a whim, my boyfriend decides to hook up the VCR and find random VHS to play. Watching home videos is something I've been meaning to do for the past couple of years, and finally, it happens. The people in charge of filming don't know how to keep the camera steady, resulting in a huge viewer headache. The videos are of times when life was a little more innocent and the scars and self-doubt didn't exist, resulting in a huge viewer heartache.

The first scene is of my family sledding. My dad takes each of us down the hill with him, my mom safely tucked behind the camera. My sisters and I all pile into a long, red sled. They urge Mary to join us. Mary refuses and decides to scoot on her butt next to us, instead of jumping on the bandwagon. Later in life, we find that Mary always does her own thing.

The next scene is of Mary's birthday party. I was obviously peeved that it wasn't my own birthday, begrudgingly eating my piece of cake and making faces at the camera. The camera pans across the living room, soaking in faces I don't remember and ones I do. Men have more hair, women have fewer wrinkles, and relationships still exist.

Then we go to Iowa. My mom questions my four-year-old self; asking if I know who we are going to visit, in which state, and finally, why. In a small voice, I say "because Grandpa died." My sister Linda says "Bunga probably doesn't even remember him." And I don't. And that makes me sad. I also don't know that I will get to meet my only other living Grandpa a year later. And that he will take care of me and I will remember him fondly after he dies in 1999.

It's time to pick strawberries. An event so small and yet not at all. My whole family is there. My parents, my sisters, my uncle and aunt, and some others. We examine the fruits. We bring our own red colanders, a word my mom had me mispronouncing for years. I sit on my dad's knee as he tries to bite a strawberry and feed it to me. My aversion to other people's germs starts early; I bat his hand away. I run through the field, my crop top inches up, exposing my bulging belly, and I don't give a damn. The camera focuses on Mary, she bites into a strawberry, enjoys its sweetness, then scrunches her face from the sour taste. Later in life, my dad, my sister, and I all become allergic to strawberries. I also become allergic to crop tops.

Zoom in on a picnic. Now we're in Duluth. We have several minutes of footage capturing our group taking Asian-photos of everything. I've seen all these photos in albums before, but it's better to see the moving pictures. My dad jokes around with his friend Gary, and they both tease my mom. They don't know at the time that Gary dies five years later from a heart attack triggered by a bout of snow shoveling.

The screen turns to fuzzy lines, the buzz so void, yet so full of everything that was. The tape stops. It automatically rewinds so we can relive it again. And we will. Because even though it hurts to, it would hurt so much more not to.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

I Will Write.

I didn’t summarize my 2013 and I didn’t post about my vision for 2014. I didn’t write for months. I didn’t think I had time to sit and ponder existence anymore; or figure out ways to be better. I was just dealing with the junkyard of my mind, trying to figure out what went where and how to sort it all out. Since I last wrote in October 2013, (and just before that was April!) you can imagine what I did – I went to concerts, I celebrated several peoples’ birthdays, I worked, I played, I ran a few 5k races, I spent time with family, I lost a beloved pet, I went to London for 10 days, I got overwhelmed by the holidays, I froze my ass off in the polar vortex, I celebrated my 27th birthday, I enrolled in an online calligraphy course, I contemplated grad school and technical school, I drank a shitton of coffee, I lost weight, I gained it back, I lost it again, I gained it again. I did all the normal things that I normally do, but I didn’t write. And not writing, for me, becomes toxic to my being – it spoils my brain and corrodes my sanity. I kept telling myself “Write.” “Just take a few minutes and get your thoughts out.” And then the other part of me said “Go out with your friends. Clean your house. Do anything but waste time and sit and wonder.” And then an external voice of a friend said “Write.”

So. Now. I. Write.

(Dear readers, if there are any of you left, please hold me accountable...for my own sake). Here’s to 2014 and getting back to the words on a page I so dearly need.)