Wake-ups are the worst. It matters not if I’ve had a good day the day before. I’ll wake up with the ambiguity of not knowing how I’ll feel from one moment to the next. The “getting better” blogs I posted a few days ago are not me this morning. Good happened yesterday along with shit, but not enough to sink into my consciousness and allow me to wake up calm, or, no matter how much I wish it, happy. Yesterday, on the occasion of Vietnam’s New Year’s holiday of Tet, I received warm e-mail greetings from the sons of my dearest, now deceased Vietnamese friend; a diplomat and poet who loved to quote Bob Dylan. One of his sons welcomed “Auntie Judy” into their family. When I tell David how this makes me happy, he doesn’t answer back. Nor does Stew.
Diana from the Berkeley Barb reunion posted on Facebook a front page of the Barb from 1970 with me in a white karate gi, my legs unshaved, furry with peasant hair, my fist extended in front of me. I smile but with ferocity.
This picture represents everything I wish I was right now: the Judy Gumbo who can rebel against death since she had not experienced it close up.
There’s gotta be a way to integrate Judy Gumbo’s defiance into my grieving self. I wonder: what would Dewey- that combination of David and Stewie – say? Neither of them are any sort of deity but still, WWDS? If I can figure this out, I may wake up happier in the morning.