Do I Go?

Queen T is napping.  Big Cuter and TBG are watching football.  It's sunny and still outside, a little bit warmer than it was 12 years ago when the bullets began to fly.

Friends reached out via text; they know I avoid the phone and, really, there's nothing left to be said.  I am here.  They are glad.  So am I.

Little Cuter texted that we should video call whenever, so we did.  It took me a few minutes to realize that her how are you doing today meant more than it would have on any other Sunday.  

TBG hugged me tightly at 10:10am; I enjoyed the closeness but couldn't share his tears.  It's odd, but I'm not sad anymore.

I ache for the friendship CTG and I would have had; I would like a 20-something in my life right now.  But that's what it is, an ache. I've run out of tears, of that deep, penetrating, unrelenting sorrow that I took to bed every night.  

I wonder how much of this is the passage of time and how much of it is my new hip.  Nothing hurts when I stand up or sit down or climb into bed.  I don't think about which leg should go first, about which side will be less uncomfortable, about which shoes to wear to cushion every step.  I don't groan when I change position.  I don't look for the closest parking space and  I return my grocery cart to the rack, no matter how far it is from my car. 

I smile whenever I do something that used to hurt, to be out of reach, to take more energy than I could muster.  All of those were reminders of the bullets that changed my life. Without their constant encouragement, I am not pulled back to the trauma.

Instead, I've reclaimed the outdoors.  I lift heavy boxes.  I work in the garden for hours at a time.

So, when I received an email that the Jan 8th Memorial would be unlocked on just this Sunday so that we, the survivors, could visit without any hoopla, I wondered if I should go.  I've never seen it.  I've never felt the need.  But there's no formal ceremony in Tucson today, no bell ringing or park dedicating.  I have the sense that I should commemorate the event..... and shoulds often get me more than I expect.

I put on my walking clothes - tights and padded socks and good sneakers below hand-me-down, oversized shirts from my boys.  I'll get in the car and see where I end up.  The boys' clothes will hug me if I find myself parking downtown.

In any event, I will definitely do some walking.  The shooter has taken enough of my life.