Posted on Sunday, December 16, 2012
in Family, Strange and Unusual
It’s a pity he has tonsillitis and a cold, he would’ve loved this. Such a toddler with such a strong constitution shouldn’t be on antibiotics but they bullied me into it. The guilt. The fresh air and the tea-cakes would have fixed him up good, I know it, he’s already bouncing off the walls even though he’s sick. But nobody listens! They call me right-wing. I worry that his immune system will let any-old-anything in, now that he’s had his first taste of penicillin.
The mass. I love it. I never went before last October, not totally convinced that Catholicism has its place in the world. ‘Through my most grievous fault I have sinned’ is what they chant but I don’t join in, I’m not sure my faults are all that bad and I’m pretty sure whatever God is up there will understand. If it doesn’t I guess I’m just on my own and I’m okay with that. I just realised today that all of this doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just something people do. I moved my lips, just in case anybody was looking. I don’t know why I care though, and I’m pretty sure the others with their strained toddlers and funny coats feel the same way.
It’s what people do to be together, this, the chanting.
Today there were flasks of tea after mass. I made shortbread and made Puppychild pass it around. There were almond biscuits and cupcakes with pink stuff on top and fruitcake slices and fizzy lemonade. A party held by the choir in which I find myself betwixt… the entity I just joined because of my Grandma, because they recognised my genes and thought I’d be the same maybe. They tasted my shortbread and although it tasted good (as it MUST do being mainly a buttery thing) it didn’t taste as good as Muriel’s. I could tell. I can’t sing as well as Granny. And I can’t draw like her. But they still love me and trust me because I have her blood. Or maybe they just like new blood… I can’t tell.
I took Puppychild up to her grave afterwards.
There was a carcass up there, near her grave. It was picked clean. Some large vegetarian thing, its skull and ribs exposed, a dead body in a graveyard with no home, taking the piss out of the carved granite slabs around it. Puppychild was nervous that such a carnivore could exact such horribleness on a creature but I told her that everything would be okay, that I’d yell at anything that came to eat us. It was a sunny morning, if anything came to eat us I’m guessing it would’ve been a good death.
It’s a murky afternoon now, and I’ve no idea what do do with myself.
I feel like making something out of papier-maché. A roast chicken dinner that nobody can eat, maybe.
Or a blog post that doesn’t mean anything.
Or vegetable soup, to give structure to strained immunities.
Or I could just stare into the fridge for an hour or two.
Or pick dog hairs from matchboxes.
Or phone a friend…
I’m thankful for such choices, life is good.