Sprung

I'm like last seasons garlic: old and bitter.

I'm in charge of the spring festivities here.

Now, to most, that means Easter, but not identifying as Christian, and my parents choosing a church where LGBT people are seen as too sinful to serve the lord and their fellow Christians, means that Easter is kind of unpleasant.

And this year, Easter Monday is my sister's 50th birthday, so festivities have to be planned and executed for that milestone, too. I remember my 50th birthday, two years ago. It was the day my sister closed on her first house, and I was stuck running around with errands and preparing a barbecue for 15 or so. My mother did buy a cheescake from a Christian Fundamentalist community in Florida and then had it inscribed with my slave name. She wanted to bring it out during the big party for my sister, the one I was serving at, but I hid it. I didn't really feel like being a pimple on the ass of the other big celebration.

This year, though, I ain't feeling the rebirth. They booked a vacation the week of the ESPA lobby day, and I thought I might have a chance to go. But a doctor's appointment was remembered and the week canceled, though today there is a note from the Doctor's office saying she has to cancel.

My sister will ask why I don't just change in her cluttered bathroom and go anyway. It's hard to explain that I actually forget how to put on my makeup when I have to have everything put away in those plastic tubs, and an hour in the am isn't enough to find that knowledge again. A week or so ago I just felt the need for my beautiful black tights, thought I could wear them to bed like I did when I was nine, but I couldn't find them, just couldn't find them. I sucked it up, muscled through it and died just a bit more.

I know that spring is potent, I do. I know that it's important for others, and I need to affirm them if I want to affirm the possibility of my own rebirth. But I also know it means one more season passed when I needed to stay dead, one more call of warmth and sun that isn't for me.

I'm aging garlic, not really fit for breeding nor even for delighting the palate. Yet it's spring and I am being asked to run the celebration.

I wish I could come up with a creative and beautiful feast, delighting all, I really do. But all are almost impossible to delight, and me, well, workman like seems the best I can do.  But when my sister chooses to leave here without even saying goodbye, every step gets tougher.

I wish you blessings for spring.  May rebirth be yours.  And when you find it, can you drop me a post card? 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.