The Middle Age Cafe: Where it’s always too goddamn hot. Could you crank up the a/c for chrissake?
Author Archives: Michelle
Three Hours ‘Til Dark
4th of July weekend, we were in the mountains of east Tennessee with our friends. We haven’t been to their mountain since February of 2020.
We cooked and drank and laughed. We sat on their south porch and looked at the mountains. We played with kitties and listened to birds. We watched PeeWee’s Big Adventure.
Randy and I sat in on band rehearsal. It was the first time we’ve seen live music since we saw Elvis Costello in November of 2019.
All in all, perfect. I mean, except for a couple of hangovers.
We Skype with them every Friday evening. This past Friday, we met up through Skype, just days after we said our goodbyes.
My friend’s daughter and her boyfriend stopped by her mom’s cabin before they took off on a hike of the mountain.
The Bass Player said “It’s only 3 hours ’til dark.”
That phrase stuck in my brain and rattled around there all day on Saturday.
Three hours ’til dark
I have people who are dear to me who have been going through a painful life event. Someone they love is dying. She is too young to die and the hole she will leave is devastating.
Three hours ’til dark.
It seems that we’ve all been living with that hanging over our head, haven’t we? I hope you are vaccinated, because the variants aren’t fucking around.
Three hours ’til dark.
My sons and daughter-in-law went to see a fireworks display last Sunday at a park on the river in front of downtown Cincinnati. They had walked away from the park just five minutes before a mass shooting took place. Two dead and five injured.
Three hours ’til dark.
How difficult it is to process everything we’ve all had to go through. How difficult it is to constantly being in a state of having no idea what happens next.
How difficult it is to grieve for the death of a loved one when there are already so many things to grieve over.
Three hours ’til dark.
I got the word about an hour ago, that my loved ones who were waiting no longer have to wait. She died. She leaves a daughter, parents and friends. I’m so sorry she had to go. Her three hours ’til dark have passed.
There is something else, though.
Light always follows dark. Always.
It hurts to wait in the dark. It hurts to fear what comes next.
But there is always light.
I hope light shines on you today. Please take a moment to hug someone you love.
The light always vanquishes the dark.
Peace.
Fifty Years: And This Is Who She Is
And this is what she does.
I’ve been digging on Nick Cave for a few years now. Rings of Saturn is amazing. This is who she is and this is what she does.
It’s not my favorite Nick Cave song, but it fits.
My mom painted this picture of me. I’m not sure of the year, but if I had to guess, it’s about 1971.
This was the year that I learned I was no longer a princess.
This was the year that my stomach started hurting.
This was the year that I stopped reflecting my narcissistic father.
This was the year when my smile was pulled down.
I see it in the portrait.
I see my mother’s signature. I see that she painted “mom” under her name.
Fifty years have passed.
I am still my mother’s daughter. She is so much older now. She will leave me. I can’t fathom that, you guys. I can’t. But it will happen.
This portrait sits against a wall in my bedroom. It had been mostly covered up for a year. Because I had a desk and a computer and monitors set up for my home office.
I disassembled my work from home office today. I am firmly entrenched back in my normal cubicle life.
Working from home is way better than being in the office, but I was happy to reclaim this space in my bedroom. This space where I can see myself. From so long ago.
I wish I could reach back in time and stroke her hair. I wish I could tell her that everything will be okay. I so wish I could. Because it is true.
Fifty years have passed since my mom painted this picture.
She painted it at the Cincinnati Art Museum in a class. I was the model. I remember seeing the other portraits. I remember how hard it was to sit still. I remember someone bringing me a little bottle of Coke. Remember those?
I remember thinking that my mom’s was the best.
Of course it was.
I’m hers. How could it not be?
Fifty years have passed. They weren’t an easy fifty years.
But here I am.
This is who she is and this is what she does.
So, this is my favorite Nick Cave song. It’s a murder ballad, it makes me feel strong and invincible. I have no idea what that says about me.