Guilty

I have been angry all week.  Deeply, inexplicably angry.  I've blamed the weather, my job, my kids, my husband, my lack of exercise.  Everyone and everything to blame, without really knowing the root cause and not caring to probe further.

Today I got an email at work that the verdict in the marathon bombing case was in.  The verdict was in?  The verdict?  In?  When did it go to the jury?  I felt my ostrich head pull gently from the sand, dispersing grains as my feathers fell slowly back into place.

I turned to Twitter (a medium I have only recently discovered), experiencing the moment as closely as I was able.  "Live" in the controlled sense.

Guilty.

I have consciously avoided the coverage of the trial.  "I don't care" I told myself.  That's irrelevant to my family at this point.

Guilty.

I am so beyond it, and he will be found guilty anyway.  I don't need to read the coverage, to see the photos, to know the details.

Guilty.

It's a new April.

Guilty.

I can't believe how far we've come in the past two years.

Guilty.

I don't even want to examine my views of the death penalty in this context...

Guilty.

Refreshing my feed like a lunatic, fresh tears with each count.

Guilty.

Each new tweet, confirming what I did not realize I needed confirmed.

Guilty.

Guilty.  Guilty.  Guilty.  Guilty.

Guilty thirty times over.  And really, guilty so many more times over.  Guilty hundreds of thousands of times over.  One verdict of guilty for each person impacted that day, in both big and small ways.  Guilty.  Guilty.  Guilty.  Guilty.

Guilty.

I am less angry now, although the weather still stinks.  But April showers bring May flowers, or so I've been told.  So here's to Spring.  Life.  Re-birth.  Runners.  Spectators.  Boston.  Marathons, of all kinds.  And the thriving of our collective innocence in the face of all this guilt.

Saving Bill

Bill, my son's gecko, had been acting strangely all week.  First it was little things, like lying in the middle of the terrarium carpet when he would usually be tucked away in his rocky "hide".  Then I found him sitting in his water bowl in the middle of the day.  One time he was submerged in the water, seemingly drowned, until I reached in and grabbed him, my lifeguard training kicking in, prompting him to open one black, clear eye and peer at me with what seemed annoyance for disturbing him.  In the back of my mind I wondered if he was ok, but it was a fleeting question instantly lost to the chaos of a normal week in our house; a bright red sock you catch a glimpse of in the dryer window before it disappears into the tumble.

I had much to distract me from Bill.  Recently back from vacation I was picking up the pieces at work, trying to reclaim at least the appearance of control.  The kids were in typical mid-August mode, enjoying the quasi-structure of camp mixed with days of electing to do nothing, knowing that before too long the choice was no longer theirs to make.  I had been "preparing" to run the Falmouth Road Race on August 17 (and by "preparing" I mean every now and again trying to get out for a run and telling myself each day that I should cut back on my summertime wine and ice cream consumption, usually as I was serving myself both).  I had never run Falmouth before; a 7.1 mile hilly ocean-front course that I heard was simply beautiful.  My client, the New England Organ Bank, had asked me to run on its team.  I have worked with the Organ Bank for almost 15 years as outside legal counsel, and their General Counsel is a dear friend and one of my first and most enduring professional mentors.  I would have said yes for those reasons alone, but the Organ Bank is also personally meaningful to me and my family, as it was through it that my brother-in-law Pete, a firefighter and hilariously funny guy, became a donor back in 2005 when he died tragically in a motorcycle accident at the age of 33.  By coincidence or fate, the weekend of the race had been moved this year and, as such, fell on the same weekend as the 9 year anniversary of Pete's death.  I hadn't run a real race since the Boston Marathon in 2013, when I was stopped short due to the attacks at the finish line, so this seemed like the perfect way for me to take that step forward in honor of Pete on a weekend that is otherwise melancholy at best.

The week leading up to the race I noticed that Bill seemed even thinner than usual.  He had always been small; the most delicate of the geckos and, likely for that reason, the one my son selected.  The guy at the pet store had tried to steer my son away from Bill, educating him that you really want your baby gecko to be hearty, the tail plump.  My son was undeterred; "that's Bill", he told me, having already picked out the name and now certain that the fledgling gecko he saw was the one to fill it.  Bill never had a plump tail; even worse, in a moment of terror the first time we tried to handle him at home he "dropped his tail", as geckos sometimes do, leaving him with a small, skinny stump that never fully grew back.  I mentioned to my son that I was worried about Bill's behavior, but he felt certain that it was a good sign he was out so much.  That he was finally getting comfortable in his surroundings.  But the day I was scheduled to drive down to the Cape for the race I found Bill upside down against his water bowl; his head thrown back, appearing to gulp for air.  Panicked, I searched out a local exotic pet specialist, racing Bill there while my son was at camp.  A team of vets gave him fluids and electrolytes, and told me it would be touch-and-go for the next 24 hours, but if he survived the night he should come back for more treatments the next day.  Seeing Bill lying there weak and deflated before the veterinarians I felt like I had failed him in the most fundamental of ways.

I spent the night before the race with my very good friend, the woman with whom I had run Boston the year of the bombs.  Although it was technically out of the way to drive to her house on the Cape and then to the location of the race, there was nowhere else I wanted to be before running.  We caught up after our respective busy summers, cooked dinner and enjoyed some wine and lots of water.  Such a rare treat, a night away with a friend and no responsibilities but to relax, stretch, sleep and get up and run a beautiful course for a great cause.  When I received a text from my husband I thought nothing of it, until I read it, and then re-read it, and then re-read it.  I read it again one more time before the words, each faintly recognizable on their own, made any sense to my brain strung together in that order.  Not possible, I thought.  Not today.  In his message my husband let me know of another young life lost way too soon; a friend tragically gone in a horrible accident.  A young man who had done so much already, but who the world rightfully expected to do so much more in years to come.  Powerless to do anything, I tried to sleep; but not before one more message back, exhorting my husband to bring Bill to the vet the next day, even if he looked dead.  He looked dead the day I brought him in, I said, but he wasn't.  If they can give him more fluids, perhaps he stands a chance.

I confess I didn't think much of Bill during my race.  It was indeed hilly, and it was indeed beautiful.  I had a great time with my friend, and in melodramatic fashion that we both embraced without irony we clasped hands and raised them triumphantly to cross the finish, a plan for the marathon that had been taken from us.  I did, however, think of our friend and his family; of what this day felt like for them, waking to that moment when the unreality rises to the surface of consciousness.  I was brought back too easily to our own August 16th, as if through a portal in time, amazed at how instantaneously I could access it.  The disorientation of the phone in the middle of the night.  Hunched on the stairs straining to understand one side of an already incomprehensible conversation.  The truths, impossible to accept.  The nausea.  The pitch black road as we drove, newborn in a bucket-seat, to the hospital.  The surreal timelessness of the days that followed.  The plate of cold cuts and breads that sat untouched on our dining room table.  The logistics and mechanics of it all, allowing a little bit of distraction from the purpose driving their need.

I wish I could say that the end of this story is Bill's miraculous recovery.  If I were writing a piece of fiction it might end with the previously listless gecko opening one clear, bright, black eye to signify, without further detail, hope.  Recovery.  A turning point filled with peace.  Sadly that was not to be.  We discussed arrangements with my son (a plan to bury Bill at the base of his favorite tree) and told him repeatedly that he had taken such good care of him.  That Bill likely wouldn't have lasted even this long had he not come to live with us.  That he gave him the best summer a gecko could ever wish for; months of comfortable living, fresh crickets, and love he would not otherwise have had.  Our son mentioned that Bill would help his tree grow; and in my mind I saw my son, swinging from branches infused with strength beyond Bill's grasp in life, now plentiful.  

Turning 40: 28 Things I Now Know

As I celebrate turning 40 this week, a milestone for reasons I can't quite articulate, I find myself reflecting on some truths life has revealed along the way.  I preserve them here as a reminder, and with the suspicion that in another 40 years, my list of life-lessons may look very different. 

For now, turning 40, I know that...

1.     It would have been cliché (almost "US Weekly") to call this "Turning 40: 40 Things I Now Know."  And anyway, I don't think I've learned 40 life-lessons yet.  And regardless, I still feel like I'm 28.  And, most importantly, I don't owe anyone an explanation as to what number of lessons I decide to include.  Maybe I'm just mysterious.

2.     Notwithstanding #1, pretty much everything in life is, in fact, a cliché and fundamentally unoriginal.  The temptation, which should be avoided, is to equate unoriginal with unimportant.  Most of the significant experiences in life, including living itself, have been done by millions of humans before you and that doesn't mean your turn to be unoriginal isn't one-in-a-million.

3.     You can be really smart (I mean, nerd level smart) and still enjoy watching Lifetime Original Movies about murderous cheerleader cliques called "Dying to Belong".  As Walt Whitman wrote: "Do I contradict myself?  Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes)".  Or, in the words, of Lady Gaga:  "Baby I was born this way."

4.     It is a blessing to be "medium attractive" - sufficiently good-looking to put people at ease but not so good-looking that things are handed to you without effort.  It is also a blessing not to have a job that depends on your looks.  (Ok fine, I'm just jealous of the truly good-looking people in the world....)

5.     As you get older your inner circles get smaller, but much much stronger.

6.     There are people who like emotional drama and people who don't.  This is not a judgment of one type or the other; merely a caution that it is important to learn as early as possible which type you are.

7.     Everyone falls on a spectrum between "introverted" and "extroverted".  Knowing where you fall in relation to your friends and spouse is an important key to happiness.  Learn how to recharge the way you need to recharge and take the time to do it.

8.     Love and friendship are not zero sum games.  New friends do not siphon friendship away from old friends.  Similarly, new children do not limit the amount of love you can give to existing children.  It just doesn't work that way, and jealousy based on that type of calculus is misplaced.

9.     There is no scorecard in marriage.  Quid pro quo and tit for tat will get you nowhere but bitter.  Save it for the golf course (and be sure to win regularly).

10.  It is important that the argument you are having (with anyone with whom you find the need to argue) is actually the argument that you want or need to be having.  No one can read minds and subtext belongs in an English literature course.  Related point:  When an argument is over, it is over.  Forever.  Do not retread old ground.  Do not fight old fights.  Put it in the lockbox and move on.

11.  If you experience an embarrassing moment or life failure, you should own it -- openly, loudly, and with lots of laughter.  There is nothing more compelling than someone who wears her fallibility proudly.

12.  People you love and trust will disappoint you from time to time (just as you will disappoint them from time to time).  Forgive them and ask forgiveness.

13.  People you think you love and trust will disappoint you in fundamental ways that will demonstrate they are not who you thought they were.  This is not the same as #12 and it is critical to know the difference.  Forgive them too; but make a mental note of their limitations.  You cannot change other people, but you can change your expectations of them.  You decide who has permission to disappoint you.

14.  Some people will like you.  Some people will not like you.  It is futile and unwise to continuously morph in an attempt to achieve 100% likeability and it will leave you feeling un-moored.  Be true to yourself, listen to your inner voice, and attract people who want to be around you.

15.  Some criticism is constructive (and has the recipient's best interests at heart); some criticism is destructive (and more likely has something to do with the criticizer's own issues, shortcomings, or self-loathing).  Try to bestow and accept only the former.  The latter has no place in relationships that matter.

16.  Everyone has a second act.  And a third, and fourth, and fifth.  Having the imagination to reinvent oneself is the best weapon against ever feeling stuck or at the mercy of life.  WWMD? (What Would Madonna Do -- not Widespread Weapons of Mass Destruction).

17.  When making career decisions, always have an exit strategy.  Like Connect 4, the key to success is being able to see what each checker will get you and all the possible winning configurations that lie ahead (and it is equally important to know that you can always just pull that fun lever at the bottom and start over any time you want -- the checkers will still be there).

18.  If you ever have an inkling to do something nice for someone else, you should do it.  Show up.  Make dinner.  Give a complement.  Text hello.  Attend the funeral.  You will never be judged poorly for being too kind, except by people who likely deserve to be judged poorly.

19.  There will always be someone worse off than you, and always someone better off than you.  You are still entitled to have a bad day, and you are still entitled to dream big, but always know why you are also entitled to be thankful.  

20.  If you ever say, "I'll never do that" you are pretty much guaranteed to do that very thing at some point in time.  This is not to say that there's anything wrong with having present-day judgments about your future self, just know that your ability to predict your own behavior is deeply flawed.  (I also recommend at least one New Year's Resolution that involves doing every thing you swore during the prior year that you would never ever do.  For me that has included buying Tory Burch flats (talk about cliché...but boy do I love them!), joining a workout cult, abandoning regular manicures, going back to work in an office, wearing sweats to the bus stop, and running a marathon.)

21.  There is no one right way to be a parent but there are many obvious wrong ways.  Concern yourself with avoiding the latter rather than striving for the former.

22.  Loving and liking your children (and being loved and liked by your children) are not the same things.  Both are a gift, but one is imbued and the other earned from expending the effort to get to know each other.

23.  Every now and then you can let yourself be the fun parent who says yes and enjoy the look of total surprise on your kids' faces.  It won't undercut your authority; it may actually earn you some respect.  (And hey, who doesn’t like to pour rainbow sprinkles straight into their mouth from the container?)

24.  It is too much to try to bear the burden of stopping time or pinning down moments as kids grow up.  Truth be told, many moments are hard and inspire a legitimate desire to hit fast-forward.  And being constantly aware of how fleeting it all is can be paralyzing.  But once a day, or once a week, or as much as feels right:  Stop.  Look.  See.  Hear.  Until your breath is taken away and you want to burst into tears.  And then know that even though time marches on, you had the moments that matter, and you don't have to catch them in a jar like elusive fireflies to prove it.

25.  "In 100 years, who's going to care?" (Credit to my Dad, who always knows how to inject just the right amount of perspective when I am veering towards self-absorption.)

26.  “There are no wrinkles on a balloon.”  (Credit to my Mom and Grandma.  Bottom line – when life offers you ice cream, the answer is always yes.)

27.  "You always have boundaries.  Let someone else choose them and they are restrictions.  Choose them yourself and they are principles." (Credit to random jeans print ad commercial in the 80's for "Boundaries Jeans" that I've never forgotten and by which I have tried to live.  Hey, inspiration comes from all sorts of places….)

28.  The shades of gray in life are harder, truer, and more beautiful than anything that appears to be black and white.  Embrace the nuance of things that don't lend themselves to clear explanation or conclusion.  Time spent in the shadows and mist is well worth it.

More than anything else, I know that I am at a time in my life where I am cushioned on either side by generations who define me, encompassing both my past and my future.  I am, literally, in the sweet spot of life.  I thankfully still have the guidance and wisdom of my parents, the camaraderie of my sister and friends, and also the innocently insightful joy of my young and not-yet-jaded children, all wrapped up in unconditional love and powered by the unfailing support of my husband.  A Venn diagram of who I am, each overlapping circle being pulled gently in opposite directions, threatening to move out of one another's atmospheres.  I know that this is a fleeting moment, as is every moment we get to write in this great story of life.  And it makes my heart ache, as I, panicked, desperately try to hold the configuration together.  Perhaps, in fact, I can articulate why this birthday is a milestone after all.

They Don't Make a Hallmark Card for Anniversaries Like Today

Last night I was burning dinner (vegetarian quesadillas), crying, and trying to explain to my kids why anniversaries matter, when in fact I'm not sure I fully understand myself.  Intellectually I understand the human need for commemoration, the general significance of a year in our culture and calendar.  But I could never have prepared myself for what the past few weeks leading up to today's anniversary (and next week's Boston Marathon) have felt like.  Even before the media barrage had begun, before I was consciously aware that the calendar had turned to April, my agitation had been rising.  It has felt like I am allergic to the world around me, everything an irritant.  Like those disturbing (yet fascinating) art exhibits of the human body that I have seen advertised, every nerve on my body feels like it is running along the surface of my skin, blue and red sinewy wires that, if touched, send a shock; my own sick game of Operation.  I want to wrap myself in ointment and soft gauze, go to bed, and wake up in May.  I tried to explain to my kids that one year ago, on April 14, 2013, I was so excited to run the Boston Marathon; I had the whole race in front of me and nothing sad had happened yet to take that excitement away.  My oldest son, insightful beyond his years, asked whether I might come home early from work the next day so that we could go running together; the type of invitation you simply don't refuse.

When I came to recognize a few weeks ago that, in fact, the approaching anniversary was affecting me, I went to see my primary care physician (when one's hand shakes uncontrollably while pouring juice for one's child, I am told one should see one's physician).  I went to the appointment optimistic that together we would chart a clear path through the upcoming weeks; that they would be, if not easy, surmountable.  I will preface the next part of this story with the fact that I have learned over the past year not to have any expectations that anyone will ever say the "right thing" to me about the marathon.  That is because, for the most part, there is no right thing to say.  There are no magic words, there is no easy fix.  I have become, if not comfortable with that, complacent about it, and certainly understanding.  However, as my physician concluded my appointment by saying "I want you to know that I have an image in my mind of you finishing this race," I looked at him straight in the eye and said, firmly but politely, "that is not going to happen."  He was undeterred: "Maybe not this year, maybe not next year, but I want you to know that I hold in my mind for you the image of you experiencing the healing moment of finishing the race."  Crushed, I wanted to put on my "Boston Weak" T-shirt and slink away.  I know that he was trying to be helpful and show me a moment of kindness, and I am thankful for that; but the only message I could take away from his words was that an inability to "finish the race" would deprive me of healing.

This morning, April 15, the one-year anniversary of the bombings, I vowed on my way to work that I would maintain a total media black-out from that moment through this year's race, scheduled for next Monday April 21.  I wanted no part of the stories of strength and perseverance.  I felt uncomfortable by the images of total unity in the face of the disaster.  I certainly don't begrudge those who find comfort in that, but my road back from this has not always been strong and with the exception of a close inner circle I have never felt more isolated in dealing with something.  I texted my good friend and running partner, with whom I ran last year:  "Um...happy anniversary?"  And we joked about funny greeting card messages.  "Happy anniversary of your traumatic event!  Although at times it may have felt like you were doing ok, enjoy being smacked in the face with a shovel today!"; or "Oh what a difference a year makes!  Well, unless you have PTSD and it's the anniversary of the traumatic event.  Then it's like not a moment has passed.  Happy anniversary!"

As I turned a corner on my way to work, the football-field size blue and yellow banner hanging from a building was caught up in the strong wind off the water, jumping and twisting, making it difficult to make out the words emblazoned across it.  "BO" "ONG", "OSTN" "STR"...I of course didn't need to read it to get the message.  I looked at my husband and we started to laugh, at the oversized ridiculousness of it all, the media trucks lining the city streets.  I put my head down and felt the rain begin to hit my face, thinking what a different race it would have been last year had the weather been like this.

My physician's earnestness notwithstanding, I'm pretty sure there is no such thing as a single "healing moment" that resets the clock, at least when it comes to this type of experience.  I think there are many moments forward.  And, quite frankly, many moments backwards.  Some moments have felt sideways, and upside down.  Recovering from the marathon has certainly not been linear for my family, and it certainly hasn't been clear, and it certainly hasn't been something I can or want to boil down to a slogan.  I have learned that not every wound is physical.  And vulnerability and pain and fear don't make you weak, they make you human.  There have been people who have touched my heart in unbelievable ways.  There have been insights into my children and my husband that have been breathtaking.  There have been times in a yoga class, or at church, or alone on the driving range, or when I'm writing, when I felt at my core who I am and knew that when all is said and done this experience will not define me going forward and it has not damaged my essence.  But there have been scary times when I worried that it would.  When I feared that this was something that was undoable.  That this had permanently sent me off on a course I didn't want to be on, and from which I didn't know how to get back.  That I would carry anger, and failure, and anxiety, and sadness with me forever and that it would, in subtle ways I didn't even realize, change the direction of my life.

On my way home from work it began to rain much harder--driving, unrelenting rain--and I began to be disappointed that I would not be able to take my son up on his offer to go for a run.  But when we got home he was there, gym shorts on and sneakers tied, suggesting my husband and I may want to wear a hat or something with a hood, his younger brother also dressed and ready to go.  And so we laced up and set out.  We didn't run far.  We probably ran about the same distance that I didn't run a year ago.  I'd like to think it was about the same distance.  And it was fun, and soaking wet, and exhilarating, and uplifting.  It was a healing moment.  It was not the healing moment.  But it is a new year, and today we did not go backwards or sideways or upside down -- today was forward full steam ahead.

Coming Home

There is a picture of my father growing up, surrounded by his family.  It is Kennedy-esq both in era and aesthetic.  The oldest of seven children, he stands with his brothers and sisters behind their seated parents, the youngest sitting on his mother's lap.  Several of the boys wear plaid jackets; one of my aunts has pearls around her neck and a Jackie-O flip to her hair.  My grandmother is turning slightly to look at her brood, a broad smile on her face.  They are all sun-kissed, laughing.  I have been told it was their parents' surprise anniversary party.  For me, the beautiful moment captured in this one photo contains, and does not belie, the many other (hilarious) stories I have heard through the years of life with these seven siblings.  Brothers ambushing their sisters' dates from the front door bushes with toy bazooka guns.  Breakfast trips to the local diner in their Sunday best in lieu of Mass, with the hope that their mother would not be the wiser (knowing my Grandmother even only for the brief time that I did, I would bet the joke was on them).  A pet duck that sadly did not survive the amount of love and tight hugs around the neck it received.  Babysitters who simply left mid-shift, the pranks having pushed them to the breaking point.  But in all of these stories of "misbehavior" a running theme of collusion, love, and the support of deep bonds.

This photo was on display as my family gathered this week to say goodbye to my Uncle Jimmy, the second of the seven.  Jimmy was a pilot, both by training and calling.  A retired Colonel when he died, he began his flying career in the Air Force, and served in many missions from Vietnam through the Gulf War.  One of my most pivotal moments as a teenager involved visiting Jimmy at the Air Force base where he served as Commander.  In addition to having the chance to explore the transport plane that he flew (massive, cavernous, and overwhelming even on the ground), we were on hand to witness the first plane of soldiers returning from the Gulf, the war having only recently ended.  As a relatively sheltered high school student attending a progressive urban school, I knew of the war only from the news and social studies class.  If I had any opinions on the conflict they were ivory tower at best.  But as I watched these families waiting for the plane carrying their loved ones to arrive, the kids holding signs antsy with anticipation, I had the honor of standing with my Uncle in his world, privy to his reality.  The wait was excruciating.  My heart began to beat faster.  I began to have irrational worries: What if the plane hadn't been able to leave? What if it had encountered mechanical problems on the way?  How could these families bear the disappointment with a promised reunion within their reach?

And then the wait was over.  They were here.  I saw the soldiers walk across the tarmac towards the hanger where we waited, potato chips and Coke set out for the celebration.  At first only small, beige figures in the distance, but then slowly faces began to emerge and recognition by the waiting families began to go off like kernels of corn popping, the momentum building to a fever pitch.  The families moved up....as close as allowed to the air field....closing the gap between them until - finally - they met.  I remember weeping openly as I watched them embrace. Wives hugging husbands, children hugging parents.  And I had the smallest of windows into their sacrifice, one that is always with me no matter my geopolitical views.

Being a good Irish Catholic family, there is nothing somber about our wakes.  They are celebrations of life, in the best sense.  We all share a similar laugh - loud, melodic, sustained - and I heard it echoing in harmony among the many relatives who gathered to pay their respects. The stories flowed...the oral history that has been a part of my life as long as I can remember, as well as new ones about Jimmy I had not previously known (not to mention new stories we managed to create just during our time together this week).  I observed the love being shared in the room, and looked at my uncle lying in repose in the middle of it all.  I smiled thinking of how much he would have enjoyed this gathering; of the stories and jokes he would have told; of his laugh....loud, melodic, sustained.  And in my mind, Brett Dennan's "Dancing at a Funeral" played: "Now's not the time, to be so sad and mournful, we are going to the funeral, and we'll be dancing the night away.  So so so don't be so shy, we are living and we're dying; we are laughing and we're crying, every single day."

Selfishly I cherished an opportunity to be with my extended family, even under sad circumstances.  These are the relatives (well, half of the relatives) that I grew up celebrating holidays and special occasions with.  They are the ones who helped form my sense of family and tradition; things that I now try to create for my own family.  Geography and the pace of life keeps me from being with them regularly, but the deep connection I feel to them (and their connection to who I am, and where I came from) is as strong as ever.  It was not lost on me, particularly as we entered the Church for the funeral Mass and found it still beautifully decorated in twinkling lights for Christmas, that although this is an awful time of year to lose a loved one, our coming together around the holidays nonetheless evokes a certain comfort ingrained by years of practice and familiarity.

At the funeral the priests gave a meaningful and personal tribute to Jimmy, focusing on his love of flying, his service to our country, his role in transporting people to their destinations both in the Air Force and later as a commercial pilot.  They focused on passages from the Bible that celebrate our safe journey home; home to God, home to be united with our loved ones who have gone before us. They celebrated the communion of Saints; the belief that we are all one, all connected in this life.  A sentiment echoed in the ee cummings poem that my Aunt reproduced in the program.  It begins poignantly: "I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)".  A celebration not only of their love story, but the love and connection we all share.

Unlike my uncle I do not enjoy flying.  To me, an airplane is a large lead balloon, waiting to drop from the sky.  Although I know it is irrational and factually inaccurate, when I picture the cockpit of a commercial flight, in my mind the pilots have both hands on the steering wheel, holding on with all their might, keeping us afloat by sheer will and brute strength, yelling to each other every time a bump hits: "Hold on!  Hold on!"  I imagine that if they broke their concentration for even a minute, it would be with tragic consequences.  As I prepared to fly home following the funeral, I began my normal pre-take-off rituals: pop my "happy pill"; put on my head phones and turn them up as loud as my ears can stand to drown out the mechanical noises; pull up my hoodie over my head to block the window from my vision.  I settled back into my seat trying to distract myself from the moment when the acceleration would indicate our impending lift and imagined the pilots doing all the mandatory routine checks that I have studied in an effort to educate and assure myself that it is not just by chance that the plane will function.  But this time, in my mind, it was Jimmy at the controls.  Calm.  Confident.  Handsome in his uniform.  A smile on his face.  Happy and excited to be taking-off; exhilarated at the prospect of flight.  And I was enveloped in peace, knowing that he would carry me safely home.