Beautiful snowy day

This is a day for being inside and doing little projects. It's about 25 degrees, and snow, or maybe just ice, is falling lightly now. It must have started during the night, as when we woke up this morning, the ground was covered and the trees are outlined in white. My daffodils are just about to burst into bloom, but I don't think this will have a lasting effect on them. Besides, the yellow and green will be more gorgeous in contrast to the white fluffy stuff.

Got a really good sleep last night, and have had a good morning so far. I learned this morning that my childhood favorite uncle is in a coma, and will probably die soon. He has lung cancer, which I've known for a while. I find myself not feeling terribly sad about this -- in fact, not sad at all, just resigned to what we all knew was going to happen eventually. What I find comfort in is knowing that when he passes, he will be with his beloved daughter and my beloved cousin Cynthia (one of the few real names I will ever use in this blog), who was killed in a car accident under suspicious circumstances a few years ago. I attended that funeral with my (now) late husband, my sister, and my parents, along with many other family members. I remember walking up to the open casket, which I *always* find barbaric, and nearly fainting at the sight of her, all made up the way funeral homes do -- not looking at all like her beautiful self, but more like some charicature of an old her. The Cynthia I remember and we all knew was beautiful, sweet, friendly to the extreme, vibrant, and full of possibility. No one could resist her -- she just drew people to her like a magnet. Someone spoke at her service, a distant relation to us all, describing how she made him feel in high school -- she was a popular girl, a cheerleader, and he was younger, and nerdier, but Cynthia very proudly and frequently introduced him to people as her cousin and really made him feel special. That's how she was. I was always so proud to say I was related to her.

There is suspicion that her untimely death was caused intentionally by her estranged husband, a known drug dealer and all around bad guy. Cynthia had fallen under the spell of chemical dependency/addiction at some point, and though she tried to conquer the monster, she had been unsuccessful for any length of time. My understanding was that at the time of this accident, she was clean and sober for at least a short time, and was trying to break all ties with this idiot husband, again. It reminds me of my own sister, who also seems to have some addiction issues, though I'm not sure if they are strictly chemical, or if she's addicted to being treated like dirt beneath her idiot's feet. I know her ex, whom she continues to live and have children with out of wedlock, brings her alcohol and drugs and encourages her to partake, then berates and abuses her for being under the influence, telling her she's an unfit mother, etc., yet continuing to supply the very things he says are the problem. Yes, that's really crazy, but that's them -- crazy to the core, apparently.

My uncle was devastated when she died -- he had been devasted previously by her choices beforehand anyway, but this was the final insult, obviously. When we buried my grandfather 2 years ago, it was next to the headstone my uncle had placed for Cynthia. (That's not where she's buried -- her husband's family somehow arranged with the local government to have her buried on his family's land, meaning we could not visit her gravesite -- hence the headstone placed where we could visit.) I watched my uncle cry over her, rather than really his own father, who died at the ripe old age of 89, instead of his beautiful daughter whose life was taken at age 36. Now at least they'll be together soon, if you believe in afterlife reunions, and I do, to some extent.

In the middle of making this post, I received a phone call from my longest-term friend's mother, who was like a mother to me when we were kids. I wrote them recently to thank them for all the ways they were better to me than my own family was. They were my fantasy family. They fussed at me if I did stupid stuff, but definitely let me know I was loved. When I was robbed at gunpoint at age 19 while working at a sandwich shop, my own family didn't seem to understand how traumatized and scared I was. I ended up that evening going to my "other" family's home and spending the night. They petted and pampered me, completely understanding the import of what had happened. They told me straight out, when I was about to marry my first husband, that I was making a mistake, that it was wrong, and that I shouldn't do it, but of course, I didn't listen. So, I also confessed in this letter to them that they were right, I was so very wrong, and that I truly wish I had listened to them. I should have said that a long time ago, but I just couldn't. Now, however, things have changed, and they both, Mom & Dad, are getting much older and much sicker. Mom has now survived 3 kinds of cancer (ear, skin, and lung), and Dad has emphysema, and is recovering from a broken hip, on top of Type II Diabetes, so I felt very strongly that I needed to tell them how much I love them before any more time or sickness passes. I'm so glad I did that. :)

And now to close -- I've been writing this for 2 hours now. That's probably enough, don't you think? I just had someone point out in an Instant Message that my blog is not updated yet, so the pressure is on!!!!!!!!!!! lol

Peace, and remember to tell the people you love that you actually do love them, even if it's from your past, and even if you haven't talked to them in ages. Life is short, and these opportunities are priceless.

Love,
WIP