08.29.14

Things lost nine years ago: a house, a car, most of our belongings; and, for lack of a better way to phrase it, the naiveté and false sense of security we all have, to a certain extent, that something as terrible as that happens to other people and not to us. Things gained in the nine years since: a sense of place; a calm, although it was hard fought, in the acceptance of loss; a home; and an extended network of amazing people who I am happy to call my NOLA family. (Although one is dearly missed.) All in all, I think it was a good trade. Happy Katrinaversary.

Bereft

In my Lucia's absence

Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden; 

I am ten times undone, while hope, and fear,

And grief, and rage and love rise up at once.

And with variety of pain distract me.

--Joseph Addison

Ferguson

[Michael's] personal account of who initiated the physical encounter is forever lost to the grave, but the initiation is likely to be the central question in the case.

To believe [Wilson's] scenario, you have to believe that [Michael], an unarmed boy, chose that man to attack. You have to believe that [Michael] chose to attack a man who was wearing his gun in a holster. You have to believe that [Michael] chose to attack even though he was less than a hundred yards from the safety of the home where he was staying.

This is possible, but hardly sounds plausible.

The key is to determine who was standing his ground and defending himself: the boy with the [cigarillos] or the man with the gun. Who was winning the fight is a secondary question

That said, we’ll have to wait for details of the investigation to be revealed to know for sure. But while we wait, it is important to not let [Michael] the person be lost to [Michael] the symbol. He was a real boy with a real family that really loved him.

--Modified slightly from "A Mother's Grace and Grieving," written for the New York Times by Charles Blow on March 25, 2012, about Trayvon Martin's death at the hands of George Zimmerman. 

Fourth Grader

Antisocial

I left my phone at home today. Now what am I supposed to do on the elevator? Make eye contact with and/or make small talk with people? Blech

Memory Notes

Will the Circle be Unbroken

I have traveled close behind her, tried to hold on and be brave.
But I could not hide my sorrow when they laid her in the grave.

Kara Lynn Morgan

Obituary

Three Little Birds

Although Kara was one of the most positive and joyous people I've ever known, one of the many things I loved about her was our shared black humor. If I was running late for a Mardi Gras parade this year, she would text me and tell me something like she was having stomach pains and I should hurry up and get there. After her brain surgery, she asked me if it was horrible that she was sort of excited about losing 15 pounds. At some point along the way in the past 16 months since her diagnosis, "Three Little Birds" became our song. We were constantly texting each other that "every little thing's gonna be alright." The fact that Bob Marley died of melanoma was not lost on us. Now, when I listen to it, weird as it may sound, it feels like a message from Kara Lynn Morgan. Every little thing is gonna be alright, although it will be a while. I miss you. I love you.

Kara

I'm going to try to write this post without reverting to the words that describe my mood best right now--maudlin, morose, mournful, mad. All of those wonderfully descriptive M words. Maudlin, in particular. But, who am I kidding?

Last Tuesday night, I lost my best friend. And I've wept more in the past month than I probably have in years, because we all knew it was coming. I've thought a lot about that, recently--whether it's better to know that the death of a loved one is coming, like Kara's, or for it to take you by complete surprise, like a Mack truck ran into you, as it was with my brother's accidental death 13 years ago. And although they're both terrible in their own ways, I guess I've decided that an anticipatory death beats out a sudden one, just barely. Because at least you get the chance to say goodbye.

I won't rehash the beginnings of my and Kara's friendship. If you really want to know, you can read about it here. I guess just suffice it to say that, for now at least, I feel completely bereft. (Even though she's playing our song as I type this--every little thing's gonna be alright.)

Space Camp

Texts from Kara, Part 2

Dear Prince:

I'd appreciate it if next time, you could ask us all to wear black. Or white. Or beige. Or any other neutral color. Kenny is enjoying the purple, though. XO.

45

It's not a real birthday party until you decorate a crab...and until everyone looks at you strangely because you decorated a crab. And looks at you even more strangely when you tell them you named him Bob.

Texts from Kara, Part 1

Life with a Nine-Year-Old

If you have or ever had a nine-year-old, does he or she talk ALL of the time? And on the rare occasions when not talking, does he or she fill the void with throat trills, tongue rolls, clicks, and made-up songs, like "My Pudding's Name is Bob?" And does the song have five verses and a chorus? Or is that just my nine-year-old?

Vieux Carre

Ate some Creole tomatoes, had a few drinks, watched a guy throw up on the sidewalk, saw two wedding secondlines, watched a guy do push-ups in the street, and just saw a guy walking around barefoot clutching a Snoopy Christmas doll. Just another day in the French Quarter.

Girl Scout Camp

Last Day of Third Grade

Dear New Orleanians:

This is a special drawing I made (I'm quite the artist, no?) to explain the many intricacies involved in two cars turning left at the same time when there's no neutral ground involved to confuse everyone. I know we like to be different and all, but really--I promise--this works well. Tell a friend. XO.