323/365

there’s a shitty old fashion
on the table and worse chips and salsa.
we’re drunk and sweaty
reminiscing about the shows we  
saw in ninety ninety two.
we want to be sexy, young and relevant,
no one noticed us in our prime
and now it’s even worse.

i play taylor swift on the cab ride home,
making more sense at forty eight
then at eighteen. you bought me cool water
and that gap sweater, trying to change me into
who you wanted me to be. we explored our bodies
in the back of my car behind santa vencia
and china camp. i wanted to love you how you wanted, but
i broke you in ways i couldn’t recognise until
your sister told richard years later. boys are sharp knives
no one can wield properly. your green eyes piercing me still.

afternoons at the ice cream shop when we
melted into each other. flittering smiles more pure
than love we’d ever know. i cried your name for years
in lonely drunken dorm rooms. wanting to say i’m sorry-
remember that day at samual p taylor park. you a sacrifice.
me a hungry devouring force. i see your grandchildren
and hope you made it into the clear where you see me
the way i always wanted to be seen.

enamoured by you.
needing to be loved.

The Day After

It’s Saturday morning. 7:46am and I woke up to a stunning view of Mt. Tampalpais from Jason’s childhood bedroom. The same room that as teenagers we would fill with laughter and farts. The same room we would fill with adolescence and misdirected testosterone, playing video games, “giving each other shit,” being boys pretending to be men.


I am alone in this room and fear that it might be too early to rouse Jason and his dad from their slumber. I slept soundly and completely last night. After the service Jason and I came home and watched some of the Raider preseason game. We chatted about this and that and then this again, never dwelling too much on the events of the day or the loss of his mother. We both needed some space to simply be for a few hours.


The service was beautiful and perfect and necessary. 300+ friends and family and ice and cream and memories. I am too cotton headed at the moment with fatigue to do it any justice with words. We laughed together and cried and shared memories about a women who people described as “a force of a nature, courageous, generous, funny, kind, and loving.”


The house is quiet and empty without her. This house that holds so many memories and fingerprints of her chaos and tenderness. I keep expecting her to yell out, you awake yet? Let me get you something to eat. But the sound of traffic beyond the hill is all I can hear.


We will find something to do with our day in her empty house. She is still here in every sense, but the one we cherish the most.


My daily posts are as discombobulated as I am, so I am going to crawl back under the warm covers and try to get a few more hours of sleep, or at least some quiet under the cover of darkness.

Normalising Grief

One of our six graders was lost today; he couldn’t find his Science classroom and it was well past the start of class. He was sort of spinning in circles with his crumpled time-table in his paws and tears welling up in his eyes, when I walked over and offered to help. I walked him to the right place, while chatting him up about being new to the school and how scary and big it can feel, but also pointing out how there is a logic to the place. I explained the blocks and the floors and pointed out the signage that can help him in the future.


I dropped him off at class with hi-fives and big smiles all around- sent off a quick note to his mentor so he knows that this boy is a bit fragile at the moment. On my way back downstairs another sixth grader couldn’t get his locker open. After some quick research, I found out that he had the numbers switched around, to his delight we got it open with the correct combination.


Later in class I talked to a few kids about slowing down as they read, while a few need to speed up. We talked about deep thinking and stamina. We shared some ideas how we find Comfort, Just Right and Stretch books.


Cindy has mentioned that we should try and normalise human emotions, so I told my students that I am in the process of grieving Karen’s death. I explained how I might be distracted and sad, but I will try my best to be there for them.


Today was a day of vague distraction and dedicated focus to work. I tried my best to smile and be there for the kids who needed directions or help opening a locker. Occasionally I would forget. Other times I would remember.


The next few weeks are a mess of commotion. I need to start preparing for a conference in which I am presenting in Vietnam. I need to book tickets and prepare a talk and a workshop. There is a good chance I will be flying home to celebrate Karen’s life with her friends and family. I want to be with them in that house. Crying and laughing and eating. Forgetting and remembering.


So for now, I will take it one day at time. Spent way too much time working tonight. Blasting through my to-do list. It is a welcome distraction, but one I know I cannot maintain.


Tomorrow, there will be other kids feeling lonely or scared or nervous. Some might be grieving or dealing with divorce or shame or joy and happiness. It is my job to be there. To watch. To listen. To help. To guide. To teach.

Chapter One for Twinkle

I was never an orphan, but when I was fifteen year’s old I clearly needed to be adopted. I was a shy awkward kid who wanted to be accepted, loved and noticed. I had spent most of middle school on the periphery of a Marin world I didn’t really understand, and to tell the truth I didn’t really understand what it meant to be an American. I was an only child in an household filled with love, but also many silences and empty spaces. I needed more family than our three-member unit was providing.


It was summer before sophomore year and I had started hanging out with a little freckled kid named Anthony. Even now thirty years later, I can’t recall what brought us together, but we used to ride our bikes to Derek Thornhill's house to play football. This was a new world of mansions and country clubs for me. After several visits to the Thornhill place, we started going up to Margarita Drive to Jason’s house. We played hoops. Swam in the pool. Built friendships that would last for decades.


But this is not a post about friendship, it is a story about family. As soon as it became apparent that our visits were becoming more and more regular, often turning into weekend long sleep-overs, I was adopted by the Dohertys, and no one was more accepting, generous, hospitable and loving that Jason’s mom Karen “Twinkle” Doherty.


Twinkle passed away this weekend, and many of you have been so kind as to ask about the allusions I have been making to a special person in my life who has been suffering. Karen was like a mother to me. I often said that she was my second mom. From those early days of making us breakfast, making sure we were safe and making us laugh with her infectious and highly inappropriate sense of humour, to the last time I saw her looking weak and frail in the hospital, Karen has been a constant source of light in my life.


In life Karen was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Her kindness and ability to transmit joy to everyone around her, were only surpassed by her unflagging strength and selflessness. She was a mother to all, not just me. She was a true matriarch. I have countless stories to share about her love of life and her ability to overcome obstacles, each one bringing me to tears at odd parts of my day, so I cannot write them all tonight.


I just needed this first post to announce her passing and make it real. To open the first chapter, so as to let the healing, grieving, honouring and celebrating to begin. At first I was nervous to write these words or even mentioned her name at all, because this is not my story alone to tell, but as I mentioned above, she adopted me and made me feel part of her beautiful and complex family. She gave me Christmas and Thanksgiving. Sunday night football. Nieces and Nephews. She gave me full access to her son and her family and their home and her heart. And for all of this I will be eternally grateful.


By being my mother and mentor and guide and role model, she has shaped who I am more than any other person in my life. I will miss her so much and it is simply too soon to understand what her loss will mean to my life, our family and the hundreds of lives she touched throughout her life. There is so much more to say, but tonight is not the time.


All I needed to say tonight was, "We miss you already Twink. I love you so much and thank you. I hope you are free of pain and resting. I will always carry you in my heart. I like you there to keep me balanced.