Flying the Coop

"If you love someone, set them free.  If they return they are yours." 

~ Unknown

Parents have their own way of dealing with their children growing into adults and ultimately moving out for the first time.  Never having the experience myself, I don't pretend to know what that must be like, but I can recount how my dad reacted to that fact some seven years ago when I moved away for college.

Not having a clue what I wanted to pursue after high school, I decided the best step was to figure it out through community college and not waste time and or money through University level priced tuition.  It was the year 2007 and I was finishing up my associates degree at Fullerton College, when the decision deadline was coming down to the wire.  I had been accepted to the three state schools I applied to: CSUF, CSULB, or SFSU.  The question of the hour though was, do I stay local and stay safe, or do I go out on a limb, take a risk and move up to the metropolis of San Francisco to finish my BA?

Knowing what my folks wanted me to choose, I decided (intentionally) not to talk to them about my decision.  This was going to be my decision; I had to live with the decision; so I sure as hell wasn't going have a skewed conversation pressure me any one way.  Looking back, I think I knew - really all along - what my decision would be; I just waited until the last day to finally put in my intent to register to San Francisco State University!

And I'll never forget my parents' reaction.  I'm sitting at the family computer in a fairly common area in our house, taking care of the task at hand, when my mom chimes in from the other end of the common area:
"Whatcha doing over there.?"
"Umm...taking care of some school business..."  Vague answer, I know.
"What kind of school business?"
"Umm...well I'm putting in my intent to register for the school of my choice."
My mom's interest and attention perks up noticeably.
"Oh yea?!  What school is that?!"
"Umm...(as I hesitate)...San Francisco State University."
"WHAT?!?!"

The conversation from there really is a blur of shock, surprise and a bit of 20 questions on logistics.  The following morning I went about my day as usual: class, work, etc when I recall having a missed call and voice-mail from none other than my dad.  Something to keep in mind: my dad never called me from work, unless it was an emergency, or tax related (as he did my tax return from the time I had a job).  As I listened to my dad's voice, the tone was very stern, very urgent, very shocked, but also very concerned.  The conversation I later had with him and my mother was a lot of...
"I thought you were going to stay local..."
"Why do you wanna move so far away???"
"Why didn't you discuss this decision with us before hand???" 
"Have you thought of the cost of living up there?!" 
"You know your mother and I are only paying for your tuition; which means you have to find a way to pay for books and the cost of living."
"Have you been looking into living arrangements??" 

All this was said with an undertone of...why didn't you choose Long Beach or Fullerton, it would've made more sense.. 

Obviously, I stuck with my initial decision, and that summer of 2007 leading up to my first fall semester living in the city by the bay, was quite a whirl wind of weekend road trips that included new student orientations; checking out the lay of the campus as well as the city, and not to mention meeting some distant family for the first time who are not too far from the cable car streets of SF; scouring craigslist for a place to live followed by some interesting encounters by some eclectic potential housemates and landlords.

Alls well that ended well though.  Two weeks before classes began I was moved into a house living with three other students whom all of us jived well together; I had a student loan to supplement my cost of living; I was on the job hunt; and I was completely and blissfully unaware of how much the next three years ahead were going to challenge, break, shape, and redefine me.  Arguably, those years were some of the best years of my life as I grew into myself, in a city that I truly learned to love.

Through all the tasks of preparation; road trips; and follow ups on paperwork and registration for classes my dad never said much more on the topic of my decision to move away for college.  Although, he did sometimes comment on San Francisco's "backwards politics," which he and I later often bantered back and forth on, as I began to rethink some of my own political opinions.  "San Francisco ruined you," he'd like to say to me with a playful smile.
But I digress.  He was a quite and strong presence though as he would frequently keep me on point to take care of business; even when I was lost in the process or overwhelmed, he was there to kick me in the pants. He had this saying that he'd like to often repeat to me; be it to me, or in reference to someone else...

"You're an adult.  I've done my part to raise you. As an adult, you have decisions to make, and they are your decisions alone; I can't make them for you; and it's you who have to live with the decisions; not me.  So while, I might not always agree or understand some of your choices, it's your life not mine.  And unless these decisions are harmful to you, I'm going to keep my opinion to myself."  

And he did!  I imagine it was a hard realization that his daughter was not just moving out of the house, but moving a distance away (like most things, he kept his emotions close to his chest), nonetheless he was there helping me prepare for that next chapter in my life; he was there helping me prepare for that defining decision.  Regardless if he agreed or understood my need to move away for college; regardless of the fact that it probably broke his heart to see his daughter fly the coop, he was there, supportive of the decision. And that kind of reaction - while sometimes convoluted - was and is love!  He let me go; he set me free; and you know...I came back to him, and for him.

AGAIN!

There's nothing like having a dad that will play with you.  No doubt many of us can recall fleeting memories of our dad's swinging them on their shoulders; playing catch; or racing them down the street.  While its the same for myself I also don't have one particular memory of my dad playing with me that stands out.  All the same here are a few...

I can remember being no older than five, coming home from ballet practice and running to a swing - that my dad constructed himself with a piece of think wood and two strong lines of rope - and having him push me in my tutu as I'd scream with delight, "HIGHER!"

I can remember - vaguely - being a toddler and one of my favorite things to do with my dad was having him do, "one, two, threeeeeee."  More explanation I know.  Whenever I felt a little roughly and playful, and we were in the living room, my dad might indulge me by laying on his back; legs bent and slightly elevated; I'd proceed to use his feet as a toddler roller-coaster chair, and his hands as my handle bars.  He's say "one," swing me up slightly; "two," swing me up slightly again; "THREEEEEEE," and swing me up, over his body, and I'd do a full flip and land on my feet; before saying: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when our family would be out on a family day trip (be it Disneyland, the park, or a family shing dig), and my young fussy self would get tired; he'd hoist me up on his shoulders.  All of a sudden my feet didn't hurt anymore and I had a 6"2' birds eye view of the world.  BLISS!

I can remember other times, my play time with my dad, would be as simple as being in the front or back yard and taking my dad's hands as he's swing me round and round, as he turned round and round.  Dizzy and grassy, I'd still insist in a fumbled saunter: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when he and I were more or less feeling silly, I'd sit on his lap as he'd use his hand as a mock "spider." We both referred to it as the "tickle monster," and the tickle monster would - as you'd expect - tickle me as I'd squeal and squirm, laugh and giggle in his lap and in his arms.

Sometimes it really is the simple things.  

"I Have a Respect For..."

As of lately, I’ve had a couple of conversations with a couple of individuals regarding my grieving of my father’s death.  Not knowing each other, they both suggested I shift my thinking to the memories I have of my dad; instead of focusing on missing him.  While, I know the physical separation of my dad will be something I will likely deal with for some time, I’ve decided to take my friends up on this advice.

    

When I was a young girl, truthfully, my dad wasn’t emotionally available; BUT, looking back I know he did love me and my siblings dearly.  In one sense, my dad projected his fear of heights, and the natural elements on me and my siblings growing up.  This was evident on many a beach day trips with my mom’s extended family.  My older cousins, Matt and Luke, as well as my older sister and I would compete with each other on who can go out further than the others in the waves of the ocean.  Competitions always, without fail, ended quickly and abruptly, as the hollers of my dad’s voice would reach our young ears as soon as we were waist deep in the ocean.  All the while, Matt and Luke, are waiting in the water, far further out than Katie and I, snickering and taunting us that, once again, they beat us! 

Another time, our family took a family road trip (which was customary every summer growing up) to the Grand Canyon! 

 ***Just as some background information: my younger brother Joey, was taking Tae Kwon Do; and for those of you who know Joe, just keep in mind his difficulty in discretion. ***  

Well, after a long drive to the rim of the canyon, we all were eager to stretch our legs, and for us kiddos , we were thrilled to lean over the railing of the mile deep hole in the ground and do our own oohs and aahhs.  Being a protective dad who “had a respect for heights,” he promptly began ushering the four of us back to a safe distance from the railing.  My sisters and I dutifully obeyed, but not with our own grumblings and groanings; but my brother wasn’t as willing or obedient!  After a fair amount of fussing to get my dad off of him, a sudden light flipped on Joey’s face – it was noticeable, and we all saw it.  

“Hiiiyaaaa!!!” 

Joey just numb chucked my dad right in his groin!  Instantly on his knees; on the ground; hands covering and holding his family jewels in a delayed protective action, and moaning (rightfully so), my brother, proudly, takes a few steps away, hands on his hips, states his Tae Kwon Do instructor taught him how to get away from people he didn’t want to be around!  Oie, my poor dad! 

While my dad didn’t always show his love and affection to me the way I wanted it; or thought I should receive it from a father, truly, I know he looked out for me and my siblings – in this case to his detriment. For that, I can reflect in sincere gratitude, and a few reminiscent chuckles.     

Religious Freedom or Legalized Discrimination?

In the words of our Pope Francis: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?”  These were bold words coming from the leader of the Christian world; a world that historically speaking has marginalized and shamed the gay community. 

It is encouraging to see how far gay rights and even acceptance of the gay community has come.  From just ten years ago, Massachusetts being the first state in the county to legalize same-sex marriages, to just last June when the Supreme Court ruled that DOMA of 1996 is unconstitutional; saying that DOMA violates the rights of gay men and women. 

Though as promising as these victories are, it’s equally disheartening when the recent scare of an Arizona bill was up in the air; a bill that would have given business owners the right to refuse service to any gay man or women.  Truly, this left me stunned and appalled!  With the premise of the proposed bill defending religious freedom caused me to question whether it would rather be religious beliefs being imposed on others, and causing backlash instead.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for religious freedom, but when a proposed law has the potential to cause people with strong held beliefs the license to screen and stereotype and discriminate; it’s just asking for trouble.  On that same train of thought, with a bill so broadly worded and no specifics in place there comes inevitable issues of discrimination.  For example, it is one thing if a church respectfully declines to perform a marriage ceremony for a same sex couple; but when those specifics aren't put in place, the potential for a restaurant owner to refuse service to a gay man or women becomes legal.  That’s ridiculous; shameful even!   

Then the slippery slope of stereotyping and judging comes into play coupled with gender identities.  How can you tell is someone is gay based on outward appearance?  Deem a man who walks into a business gay because he looks a little metro-sexual or his mannerisms are more feminine?  Deem a woman gay because she wears collared button downs, paired with trousers and a blazer, topped off with a “boyish” haircut and seems a little rough around the edges?  Com’on!  

When I first read the news about the bill, I couldn't help but think about racial discrimination:  “Irish Need Not Apply” signs, “Separate but Equal” restrooms, drinking fountains and restaurants.  And while gay rights may not be the exact same comparison as the civil rights history and movement what it boils down to is judgment, condemnation and alienation. 

What leaves me so much beside myself when talking about gay rights and religious freedom is this: people have their deep seeded beliefs about gay men and women being an abomination; well why stop there?  I know there’s morality about divorce; morality about pre-marital sex; morality about gluttony; morality about greed; the list goes on.  So why not just carry (at all times) an identification card of all the litany marks against us.  This way we can take religious freedom full throttle. 

Going too far?! Hope it made a point!

Being a practicing Catholic myself, I couldn't help but think of Jesus sitting at a table and eating with tax collectors and prostitutes.  The Pharisees and Scribes were quick to judge and alienate sinners; while Jesus said: let the person without sin cast the first stone.  How is a bill that discriminates not a modern day stone?!

Again, yes, religious freedom: good; great; I’m all for it.  That gives citizens the right to respectfully voice their opinion; pray and worship how they see fit; abstain from vices they see as harmful; respectfully yet boldly decline to perform procedures and deeds that are innately wrong.  This is free will; we all have it. 

Now as it were, I personally, support gay rights and marriage.  For example, I voted no on proposition 8.  First off, in a country that doesn't have a national religion; it would be showing partiality over certain religious beliefs.  Secondly, from a secular standpoint, giving same sex couples the right to marry and all the legal rights that go with it doesn't make a heterosexual couples’ marriage any less.  Thirdly, passing a secular bill on gay marriage doesn't infringe on any one person’s religious beliefs and held teachings; maybe makes them uncomfortable, but that is something totally different.  People are free to participate or not participate; because of religious freedom and their free will.  Same sex couples are free to marry; and heterosexual couples are free to marry.  If you aren't gay, don’t marry a gay man or woman.  How does a consensual same sex marriage affect any one person’s decision not to marry gay?  And passing laws that infringe on people’s civil freedoms based on religious freedom is, simply put: imposing one groups set of beliefs on the whole.  Again, we do not have a national religion, where this might be binding.   

For myself, it comes down to this: being gay isn't a choice; and it’s been proven time and time again; it’s a predisposition.  Therefore, I have a hard time accepting a predisposition within a committed consensual marriage as wrong. 

Yes, there are plenty of Biblical passages that condemn homosexuality; but name me one passage that Jesus himself said that condemns gay men and women.  It’s no secret that Jesus challenged and changed old traditions and teachings from the Old Testament in his three years of ministry.  Once more in the words of our Pope: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?”  So, if the Pope isn't judging; who are any of us to?!    

...Tears...

Early mornings

sunrises

thinking of you

...tears...

     Morning coffee

     morning runs

     A familiar song

     on my ipod 

     ...Tears...

          Commute to work

          thinking of…

          students say good morning

          ...tears...

               The time when...

               This other moment when…

               Watching you decline…

               Why couldn't I save you…?

...Tears...

     In my dreams

     sometimes I see you

     and it’s good

     and I smile…

     and I wake up

     missing you

          While other times…

          it’s haunting

          and I wake up

          in tears…

               And there are times

               when you cross

               my mind

               and I wonder…

               Do I cross yours…?

               Or, might you be

               too busy for me?

                    While I know

                    that train is

                    un-railed  

                    All the same

                    I need

                    to feel

                    your presence

                    again. 

It's a Funny Thing: Time

“Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration.”  ~Khalil Gibran

It’s a few and far between occasion when an email stops me in my tracks and really makes me think.  Days before Thanksgiving I received an email from a certain Chris Geraghty.  Chris and I met just over three years ago as we both found ourselves teaching for the very first time as first year teachers; and swimming in the deep end of West Philadelphia.  Both teaching middle school minds (and all the liveliness and opinionated minds that came with the territory) and coaching the track team on the side, Chris and I forged a friendship that has sustained itself to this day.  During my two years in Philadelphia, we grew close, and he became a friend I could connect on many a levels.  We were there for each other in the exhaustion of teaching in an intercity school as first year teachers; we were there to share funny stories and hear each other’s rants on other days.  The fateful and stormy night in July on 2012 when I got the prognosis of my dad – Chris was there with ice cream in hand – as he, Colleen and I talked, cried, sat in silence, and took ice cream as a remedy. 

Chris; or otherwise  known as Mr. Geraghty

My 8th grade class 2010-2011

But I digress; his email was short and sweet – as it normally is – but it spoke volumes to me as I was approaching the Thanksgiving weekend.  There were happy Thanksgiving wishes, but the line stopped me and made me recollect was this: “It was three full years ago that we were gifted this long weekend as a much needed respite from the energetic children of Girard and Lancaster!”   

My 6th grade class 2010 - 2011

Three…full…years ago…  Had it really been three years ago since my first long break as a first year teacher?  Has it really been three years ago that I was still getting acquainted with Colleen and Gabi in the SSJ Mission Corps? Had it really been three years ago that I had recently left the hilly streets of San Francisco to bear the four brutal seasons of the east coast and found myself teaching alongside many other first year teachers in the notorious neighborhood of west Philly? Huh…three years ago?  

SSJ Mission Corps 2010-2011

When I stop and really think about all that’s happened in three years’ time, I can’t help but feel a sense of fullness; fullness of life that is.  In three years’ time I’ve taught as a full time teacher (now at two different schools, on two different ends of our coasts).  And in those first two years in the trenches of West Philly, those boisterous preadolescent teens taught me more than they will ever know; they forced me to grow and assert myself more than they will know; and they gave me the gift of them – every single day.  In three years’ time I’ve made some of the dearest friends out in the city of Brotherly love (Colleen, Chris, Seth, Peg, Nancy, and Rosanne just to name a few); while maintaining some other dear friendships in California (even with the three hour time difference).  In three years’ time I’ve reconnected with childhood friends and even a childhood teacher who I can now confidently call a friend and mentor.  In three years’ time I’ve traveled to all the iconic east coast cities such as: Boston, D.C., New York, and Baltimore; and never took it for granted.   In three years’ time I’ve run two full marathons and helped coach numerous other youth in the multitude of benefits that comes from running.   In three years’ time I’ve effed up a time or two; picked myself up and kept going.  In three years’ time I’ve grown into my own – even more so than before – and felt more comfortable and confidant in my own skin.  In three years’ time I’ve put myself out there; danced, dated and flirted with a number of undisclosed men – cause Lord knows my hips don’t lie!  In three years’ time I’ve asked for forgiveness, and in other circumstances gave it.  In three years’ time I’ve had a couple of fall outs with people I never thought I would, and despite the hurt that comes from a fall out, learned to let it go; learned to forgive ‘em and learned to move on.   In three years’ time I’ve faced demons of my past, and in time and with help learned to address them in a healthy and mature way.  In three years’ time I’ve been thrown under the bus and learned to hold my own - and in turn learned a hell of a lot about myself in the process.

SSJ Mission Corps in Boston Spring 2011

Kelly Drive - my running route while residing in Philly

NYC Statue of Liberty 2010

Coll and I in NYC fall 2010

Baltimore for my 25th B-day - 2011

Philadelphia's annual flower show - 2011

Philadelphia Marathon fall of 2011; with a student of a running buddy!

Philly marathon - 2011

Philadelphia city hall

Seth and I - karaoke! 

Independence hall with Nick - a SFSU college friend!

A Winter scene in Philly. 

Bryson and I at the top of the Rocky steps in Philly - 2012

A night out with a couple of gents in Philly!

And yes, in three years’ time I’ve uprooted myself back home after a cancer diagnosis; and in that time I’ve – voluntarily – took a step back professionally for the sake of time with my dad; and now I can say I’ve experienced a promotion as well.  What goes around comes around!

A SFSU Newman reunion via hike!

A long standing friend's birthday via wake boarding!

Color Run - San Diego 2011 with Justin!

With the girls at an Angels game! 

Bungie Jumping! 

Yes, it HAS been three, very full years! 

Gah, three years - where did it go; how did it go?!  And that the thing - so often we (myself included) become numb or even apathetic to that time and that value of time spent.  The Monday drain; the deadlines; the drama; the "to do lists;" the "I don't have time for..."  And while all this is real and everyday living - I know I feel like a cheesy mush when I have moments where something so simple causes me to recollect in gratitude; and even motivating me forward.    

And so, as it has been said that the first holiday season without a recently deceased is emotionally rough, I can say that was indeed the case for me this past Thanksgiving weekend as thoughts of my dad came to the surface.  Despite that fact, the other truth is I am truly grateful for my life and the fullness that it has and continues to be for me.   And while the past year and a half (of that three year stretch of time)has been the roughest year and a half– second to none – with my dad’s diagnosis of cancer, treatment of cancer and death, I can’t help but look at that fullness and not focus too terribly on the trenches of now.  In simpler words: reflecting on my past, gives me hope for what’s to come. 

“You may delay, but time will not.”  ~Benjamin Franklin

Standing in the Aftermath

More than two months after the fact of my dad's death and I still stand in the chaos of the aftermath. 

“Honestly, I don’t know how I am going to be a day; a week; a month after my dad passes.  So if you don’t hear from me, do me a favor and call me and just ask how I’m doing.”  This was the phone conversation I had with a friend the eve of my father’s passing – not knowing he’d pass in the wee hours of that night.  After a restless sleep; I was jolted awake at 3:55AM by my mother, who had found my father dead, moments before waking me. 

Throughout the whole cancer battle, people have said “yes you know his death is coming, and you can spend that time with him, BUT no amount of ‘preparing’ will make you ready for that moment when death takes him.”  And they were right!  The sound of my mothers’ sorrow waking me; hearing the news “he’s gone;” feeling the shock in my gut; seeing his lifeless and pale body; and letting the tears overcome me as my legs collapsed under me – nothing, not a thing, not one wise word could have prepared me for that inconceivable moment. 

The days following are all but a blur.  Being in and out of work that week, with students of ranging ages reacting to the news of my dad’s death; and some not knowing what to say or even how to act around me - I indeed felt like the elephant at the school.  Feeling like I was perpetually on the phone with friends or family or replying to emails from friends or family – certainly it was comforting to be consoled so much.  With ten out of the twelve of my dad’s siblings flocking in from across the country, and a fair number of other relatives in town - we were hardly alone in that first week.  Flower deliveries flocked our door steps; home-cooked meals that gave us the luxury of not having to cook for a week.  Constant company from friends and family alike gave us comfort and consolation as condolence cards and care packages seemed to have caravanned its way to us constantly.  Managing plans at the mortuary while blinking back tears; tying up loose ends at the church for the funeral while pushing back bitter sweet memories that became hauntingly painful to me; grappling and wrestling with words for my father’s eulogy as I struggled to write without breaking down – this was the emotional state I often found myself in the preceding week after his death.  And the irony is, as emotional as I was that week I could really be emotional - there just wasn’t time to really mourn. 

As the days of the viewing/Rosary proceeded; and as the funeral preceded the burial, the out-pour of people who showed up to pay respects truly surprised and moved me.  Even those who either didn’t know my dad that well, or at all for that matter came out of the woodwork to show their condolences to my family and me.  In this way I truly learned the funeral was just as much for my family and me, as it was to honor and remember my dad. 

Now, more than two months after the fact I still walk in a fragile state of emotions that simply lay just below the surface of the façade I sometimes put up.   From where I stand, I can honestly say, I feel bipolar – no offensive intended – either that or I feel like I’m perpetually PMSing.  On any given day or week I don’t know where my grieving will be at.  In some days or circumstances I might find myself recalling his memory and in turn (of course) missing him – A LOT; wishing I could just see him walk through the door, or give me a hug, or hear his voice.  But I can’t, and I won’t – and it breaks my heart. 

Other times I think: what if we had detected the cancer sooner?  Would he had more of a fighting chance?  Would he still be here?  What if my folks hadn’t visited me in Philadelphia in May of 2012; would the lack of walking all around town not triggered symptoms; and would he have gone sooner; and (hypothetically) not having a lot of notice would I have been around? 

His memory visits me in the early morning as I run and gaze at a morning sunrise – as it reminds me of the morning he passed and the gorgeous sunrise he gave me and my family.  I think and picture him as I get ready for work, and how he and I were often the first ones up in the morning; to find him plugging away on Quicken or sittin’ on the front porch was common place and a fond presence to my morning routine.  I replay memories of outings and conversations of the past year; conversations I never thought I’d have with my father.  It makes me smile in gratitude, yet sigh in the fact that I wish we could have more.  Songs like "The Scientist" and it's words "nobody said it was easy; it's such a shame for us to part; nobody said it was easy; no one ever said it would be this hard; oh take me back to the start," and with that the tears come rushing down.  I gaze at pictures old and new of my dad; me and my dad, and notice how the stress of life really weighed on him at times; while other times his disposition really is quite sweet. 

In the mist of the unpredictable highs and lows of the grief I treated myself to a weekend getaway to Chicago to visit my SSJ Mission Corps and Philadelphia dear friend Colleen.  On the Sunday morning of the long Veterans Day weekend I sat in morning Mass with Colleen when the presider gave his homily on death.  Oie – just when I thought I could evade the grief for one freaking weekend!  As he spoke with sincerity I couldn’t help but think of my dad as the priest spoke of the dying process and comparing it to someone sailing into the ocean horizon.  “Little by little we (the loved ones) see less and less of the one dying; while more and more they sail into the unknown waiting for what awaits them.”   My dad’s declining time in hospice was all I could think about; my family and I more and more watched him straddle that line between heaven and earth; life and death.  As the priest continued he talked about grieving the death of a loved one is a very human experience; that grieving is preserving (really preserving) that memory of the person. 

And so as I sat there in a parish I had never sat in; in a city I had never been to, the grief I could not evade came rushing through that façade, and it was all I could do to breathe back sighs of tears, as my dad’s memory came back to me.  Try as I may to keep up the façade, tears came steadily down my face, as I first dabbed them dry with my scarf; then with tissues from Colleen’s purse, who sat next to me and offered them, before she offered her hand as some comfort in the church pew.  Without hesitation I grabbed her hand in support and strength in some relief from the grief. 

And so goes the question I’ve been wrestling with: how do people comfort when I’m at the mercy of the emotions that take me captive?  And the answer: just be…present.  When all I need to do is recollect and process memories of my passed dad– just listen without fear or uneasiness.  When all I need to do is let the tears fall and let them be heard – take me without question in an embrace, and hold me in my sadness.  Let me know my mourning is warranted and approach without anxiety or hesitation.  Let me know you care enough to ask me how things are, and not look at me like you’d like to ask me but you’re too nervous to – and in a sense making me the elephant in the room.  While I know it’s never an easy conversation starter; know it’s better attempted then dismissed.  

Let it rain; let it pour; let it come down on me.