Larkin died a little bit ago. My mom warned me this morning, she was taking Larkin to the vet and she was not doing well. A second call warned me that there was something on her spleen, and they would be operating. A third call from Amanda was the news... she died on the operating table.
My poor little Larkin baby.
After the first call, Jer asked how I would react if Larkin died. I couldn't answer him. When Amanda called, I didn't react at first, and then, the tears just started pouring. My baby Larkin. I may not be hysterical like I was when Mocha died, but it keeps getting worse. Larkin-butt. No more.
The first day we got her, she puked on my lap. She and I grew together. Mocha had me first, but Larkin... Larkin was my partner in crime. Larkin wouldn't run away if you let her off the leash. Larkin sat outside my bedroom door whining for twenty minutes, because she thought I didn't want her in there because my door was partly closed. Larkin wouldn't let me go to the bathroom alone, or take a shower alone, or sleep alone, or watch tv alone, or walk alone. Larkin would get so excited to see me when I came home from Buffalo, albeit slower and more subdued in recent years. Larkin, who greeted me at the door the first time I came home after Mocha died, with a confused look. I just knew she was still looking for Mocha. Larkin. Sweet sunny little Larkin. Yes, she was a pain in the ass, but all younger sisters are. She made things funnier and calmer, and would let you hold onto her and cry if need be.
Beyond the obvious, Larkin's death also means the death of (yet another) era. We got Larkin in 2000, the last year we were all a family at home. Amanda graduated in 2001, and as happens when you grow up and go to college, things never were quite the same. It was the end of "5Greco5," the end of childhood. Larkin was the last "addition" before Ron.
I want to call my mom but I know she's having a hard time right now. Larkin was there when her children left, when she and Papa moved, when Mocha died and she needed comfort. Some people have second sets of children, my parents adopted dogs. Rosie, while sure to be a comfort, is still new.
My sunny little puppy. Growing up sucks.
an hour and a half, multiple facebook searches, the pulling out of every single piece of paper I've saved from Venezuela to find a last name written SOMEWHERE, and five poorly written spanish messages, and I have now friended two (2) of my host siblings and three (3) of my very best friends from school in venezuela. Why I suddenly got the urge, I don't know. But I did. And decided to go with it.
You know how you can look at a picture of someone and just KNOW it's them?
I looked up my host sister when finding my friends wasn't going too well. And I scroll down to about picture four or five, and I see this girl... and I'm like "that looks like her... sorta... it's been a long time..." then I looked to her right, and there was my host father, staring at me out of the picture. No second guessing there, I knew him instantly.
The same with searching for one of my friends... Third picture down, I saw her and started smiling, she hasn't changed one iota. She led me to the one I'd originally been searching for, who led me to the girl who originally took me under her wing.
now I wait until they respond.
This is from Frank Warren's (Post Secret founder) commencement address at St Mary's College. He asked students to write down one sentence commencement addresses, what they and their classmates need to hear. One person wrote:
. . . I might be over the all-nighters in Baltimore Hall, the shower shoes, the no-soap-or-paper-towels-in-the-dispenser, and even the annoying Great Room hours of St. Mary’s College of Maryland; but I will never – EVER be over how each of those circumstances, at this fine institution, allowed me to meet the most fascinating and awesome people I have ever met in my life; I am humbled to call them friends!
I miss Canisius. Graduation was yesterday. A year ago today, May 17th, 2008, we walked the walk of doom and were forced into the real world. I miss it.
1. I came into consciousness this morning and knew something was wrong. I don't make a point to do a body scan when I wake up, but this morning, I was suddenly very aware that my stomach was... off... and I knew immediately that I would most likely NOT be running 12 miles today. But I got up, ate some oatmeal, tried to relax a little. Here it is, 2:45 pm, almost 7 hours since I woke up, and I still don't feel that great. 12 miles is not going to happen for me today. Which means, it has to happen tomorrow. Boo. I *might* have given myself food poisoning yesterday, something that I saw happening and didn't prevent. But now, this means I have to juggle around my usual Sunday routine so that after work tomorrow I can come home, get out, and get home in a relatively sane amount of time. Also, it means I have to run faster than 3 hours. And that I have to do things such as get gas and groceries tonight instead of Sunday as usual. And I'm still in my pajamas.
2. The school district here has been very... upfront about things. In the space of three days, I got two notices that sex offenders had moved into the school district. Yesterday I got another letter from them, but I didn't open it until this morning. One of the kids at the elementary school (a block down the road) came down with swine flu. SWINE FLU. WTF SWEET HOME SCHOOL DISTRICT???? yeah, definitely not staying in the suburbs forever.
omg omg omg omg omg omg omg
I am 34 pages into "A Race Like No Other: 26.2 Miles Through the Streets of New York." I finally stopped procrastinating and put my name down for the lottery to enter the NYC marathong. OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMG
A slow, painful, horrible, muddy, "I- can't- believe-I'm- doing- this-kill-me-now," embarrassingly weak, many walk breaks 12 miles today.
But still, 12 miles.
Next weekend, harder, better, faster, stronger.
Reading Katie's facebook profile reminded me of this little gem from Easter... I find it hilarious for some reason.
Katie: I have a dual major! Two degrees!
Me: So? I have two degrees. Everyone in this room has two degrees.
Amanda: Ron doesn't.
Me: Ok, everyone except Ron has two degrees.
Papa: I don't.
Me: OK! All the FEMALES in this room have two degrees!
One good thing that's come out of Hamilton's funeral is I've sort of reconnected with Chad... Dear old Chad. It's like, he hugged me and I was suddenly right back where I once was, my friend back again. We've emailed a few times back and forth, hopefully it continues. It's so great to hear about his life and how he experiences the world. At the same time, it helps me put everything into perspective. My life, my memories, my experiences. To write them out and have to explain them to him, it's amazing the clarity it brings. And I suddenly want to be a writer again because I want everyone to hear my stories. I want to write them all out and have everyone know them.
It started with the hill. He mentioned he missed the hills at MU because running up and down them made him feel at home. And I got to thinking about a specific place on the Canisius campus I miss most. I couldn't come up with a place, I miss everywhere. I came up with experiences.
I wanted to tell him about thundersnow. And the spaghetti dinner we had. About the drama and the boredom and the freakiness of snow and thunder in one storm. I did end up telling him the basics of the story, adding in details I had completely forgotten about until I actually sat down and thought... Amanda's dad being out with the electric crews. Losing cable for the night. Wading across Main Street on Friday morning to get food and the supply truck hadn't gotten through.
Before that, I sat and typed out a huge paragraph about the dining hall. How I miss Saturday and Sunday brunch, waffles and newspapers and looking out the windows at the quad.
Gym with Addie. Blowjob lessons for Maya and Elizabeth. Those goddamn doors in Eastwood slamming. The day the water main broke. Meeting Maya for the first time. Foreign movies with Adam. Midnight movies with Steve. Laying out in the quad with Kristin the last day of classes freshman year and talking. 9:30 mass. We are one body. SNIP. Old Main snack bar. Late nights in the library. Grilled cheese in my room sophomore year. Chris Lee's class. Tom Joyce's class. Spanish. Me gusta queso en mis pantalones. K.I.S.S my swamp ass. Random subway rides. Stratford Festival. CME. There's no place like home. Wraps. Omlettes. Waffles. Greek salad. Make it work time. Oh god, make it work time.
I miss A1. I miss Canisius. I miss those days.
Why didn't I appreciate them while they were happing?
I'm heading home tomorrow, the second weekend in a row.
I say it all the time, but this time I mean it. I'm not fucking old enough for this.
I'm not old enough to go to the funeral of a classmate. I'm not old enough to see my classmates grieving openly. I'm not old enough to process the fact that Hamilton was fucking 23 years old, a goddamn fucking WAR VETRAN, and he fucking dies because he fell asleep? Who the fuck can comprehend and be ok with that at 23 fucking years old?
I'm super vigilant lately. Super focused on staying on the road. Super focused on making it through the day. Anytime now, I could fucking fall apart. And that scares me, especially knowing I have 10 hours of driving ahead of me between tomorrow and Saturday.
I can't fucking believe this is happening. Of all the people in the class of 2004, why'd it have to be one of the nice ones?
I can't handle this. I'm not old enough.
I can't believe it about Hamilton... I'm not going to sit here and be all "he was a great friend, you will be missed!!!!" when I haven't talked to him in four years, but in high school, he was a great guy. He had every reason to be a dick- well liked, class president, sporty... and he wasn't. That just wasn't him. He was a great guy, and the world could use more great guys. What a shame. What a shame.