I got lost somewhere in the middle

The sound of a ticking clock has never bothered me. If I worked on a bomb squad and had to deal with that cliche time-bomb - you know, with the sticks of dynamite all taped together and the big ol' alarm clock as a timer - I'd probably fall asleep before I could defuse it. My grandparents have always had traditioanl analog clocks with a loud tick, tick, tick. That sound will put me to sleep almost as fast as being in a moving car.

Now y'all know - I'm really just a 5'10" toddler.

There are other strangely comforting sounds from my childhood. The sound of a dishwasher late at night, the "whoooop, whup-whup??" of the big cherry picker trucks from the electric company, the sound of a propane burner going at full blast.

And then there are the sounds I hope to never hear again - the loud beeeeeeeeep of a portable oxygen tank switching on, Amazing Grace, my grandfather's voice, full of tears.

The anniversary of Katrina just passed and I was supposed to call my grandparents, but didn't. What was I going to say? "Hey, so yeah - it's been a year since you lost everything you own, with the exception of a box of pictures and some salt and pepper shakers. How's it feel??"

I'm tired of anniversaries. I'm tired of five years since September 11th, 2 two years since I left my husband, one year since my childhood drowned, six months since my dad died. I'm tired of marking the bad.

I suppose I should view it like the rings in a tree - if you cut me open, you'd see black rings for the bad and what? Blue? Fuschia? Happy jolly pink? for the good.

Perhaps it's my frame of mind or the wine, but right now I can't help think that there are more black lines than blue. I don't remember the first time my grandparent's clock lulled me to sleep, but I can certainly remember the last.

It must be the wine, 'cause I gotta tell you guys, in the interest of blogistic integrity over here - I just cried when I found out that Liz (I'm not linking 'cause the link DON'T WORK) is taking a break and I cheered OUT LOUD for Mrs. Kennedy's turtle.

I don't know, guys. I just don't know. I had a good idea, and it fizzled, so I wandered off for a bit and now all I have for you is turtles.

Surely, there's a lesson or, at the very least, a tired metaphor in that too.

Goodnight.