I wanted (want) to say to God, “Hold my catastrophes, will ya?”
As we were preparing for our son’s memorial, an “Evergreen” behind our two-story house—one nearly as tall as our house—suddenly fell over. I was home and heard the crash-bam-boom.
I ran to the ruckus and saw the downed tree. If I’d been in a normal state of heart-mind, I’d have thought to yell, “TIMBERRRRR!!” sardonically.
I loved this tree partially because when I opened the upstairs screen-free bathroom window, I could smell the pine and touch the bristles inches away like I was living in the Redwoods. If the swimming pool filter was running, a trickling creek was nearby.
If all that wasn’t enough, the bonus was this tree provided an escape route should there be a fire! I could totally see myself Jack-and-the-Beanstalking it down.
But wait, there’s more! The towering, fallen tree—the one that had had just too much, gave up the ghost, and collapsed in grief—created a domino effect, bursting a main water line and flooding our house.
There was more, but you get the picture. The complications and calamities were Biblical. (I used the past tense in that line because I’m trying to keep this positive.)
Let’s keep things moving.
This past week, I nearly caught our house on fire. I used the broom from the fireplace toolset to brush back sparked embers on the hearth, went upstairs to use the bathroom (the one missing the Evergreen), and then a few minutes later, as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw the billowing smoke (thanks for nothing, smoke alarm: you had ONE job). And then saw the broom on fire.
I grabbed the handle and ran (yes, ran) toward the kitchen with my now fully lit torch. Indeed, I had fanned the flames; what they told me in grade school was right—air fuels a flame, but what should I have done, stop, drop, and roll? Be serious.
I threw my Ozempic torch into the sink and blasted the faucet. A catastrophe averted. What else you got, Universe?
When Joey was a little guy, he called firefighters “fighter-fighters.” Sometimes, I wondered if he was confusing firefighter with fighter pilot, which had been a long-range career goal.
(I didn’t find a photo of Joey in a firefighter uniform, partially because perusing Joey’s pictures is often fraught, but here’s one in a flight jacket in his vette.)
When Joey would say fighter-fighter, I imagined a firefighter working twice as hard.
Joey passed from this earth on Dec. 22, 2022. I never imagined I’d have to work so hard—way harder than twice as much as anything.
I’ve mentioned before that I see 22’s everywhere…and I’m still getting pelted by 22’s all the time. I look at the clock, it reads :22. I stop the Garmin on my bike and it displays 22 miles. Imagine all the places you see numbers, that’s how often it happens.
Even if I wanted to, Joey would never let me forget him. That he lived, filled, and broke my heart.
Today is a 22.
Help me carry Joey’s torch. Please fan the flame; never forget my boy.
PS. Ala Jerry Seinfeld, not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-it, I don’t and never have taken Ozempic; I just thought it was clever, and I’ll take any old flicker of the old me.
