Ground Zero + 1 year

Dear My Favorite People Ever,

It's that time of year again.

I'm in my messy-ass apartment, getting ready to go to Baconfest 2010 (you can still taste it from when you read about Baconfest 2009, can't you?). Getting ready means wrapping up some things at work. And checking the weather. And charging my camera battery. Washing some delicates. Digging up a razor head as if I'm going to need to shave there. And blogging. Obviously duh like what else and stuff seriously?

There are some marked differences between this year's Baconfest and last year's.

For one). Anaga can't give me shit for being stoned out of my mind (stoned on xanax, sorry. No, I can't score you anything). It's me and her and the fam and the cabin and food and no sedatives and far fewer tears.

Also). I am not 102 pounds anymore. That's for fricking sure.

And). It's a few weeks earlier. So possibly warmer. Should I pack a swimsuit? Probably. It will go good with my not shaved legs. Sorry boys.

D). I'm flying there, not driving - all 330 miles and all in a very small plane. Our friend Rob (aka Fat Rob) is a pilot. A pilot I trust with my life, literally. And if I didn't, I am still so not afraid of death that I am OK getting into a small plane with him. The last small plane I got on was the Navion. And that was the last time it flew before That Day. I am brave. I have giant steel womanballs. I also trust that you meet God when you're supposed to, even if you're a baby, or don't feel ready, or just barely got that girl back in your life after waiting for years. I believe in those stories people tell about times they cheated death. It happened to Rbf three separate times while The One That Got Away was still "away." After he enjoyed his final year with her, he got to go home. In short, I'm putting on my big girl pants and flying free.

5). It's been a year. And everything that implies.

There is something about it being a year. There is something about honoring someone with reverence for 365 days, and for longer. There's something about confirming that it's possible to be loved purely and loyally by someone for 4 of God's seasons after you've moved into your next existence and left them behind. I wanted to do it right, I wanted it to be about him. I knew I was supposed to be that someone he left behind in shambles. I did it. I didn't just survive it, but I made this last year everything I wanted it to be. I got to look back on the agony I made it through, the gargantuan price I paid - all so that his final days, his final moments, closed out with all things in their proper places. To quote one of his friends who I think truly knew: "He went out on top, in love, and loved by you."

So, guess who's still in shambles? This girl. But guess who can finally say "I'm good" when someone asks, not just a reserved "I'm OK." Me. I can. No, I am not in the dating scene. I'm not looking. I don't have to. I'll know it's time for that when he brings that person to me. I don't want people telling me my future. I always got nervous about people telling me I would someday love life again. I still hate that. It's for me to discover, not for others to predict so later the could say they "told me so." Nobody would ever say that...but I still felt like they might. It always felt like this thing they were doing to comfort themselves, and when I finally believed them, they could dismiss compassion. How stupid is that? Oh well. It's how a warped mind works. My girlfriend at work recently told me that she was worried about me near the end of July, about the dark place I was in. She's right, it was probably the darker and scarier of the stages I faced. I dreaded something, not sure what. Maybe I dreaded the reality that pain can be fresh and it can be stale. Stale pain hurts a deeply as fresh pain - but has less of the fanfare, so it's lonelier. How is that fair?

And I could have written that last paragraph right there, and saved you all a year of listening to me retch and groan about others' stupidity and my bizarre state(s) of mind, but that trademark mixture of your laughter and your tears is so much more of an experience than the other things you'd have done with those hours upon hours. Whoever you are, I love you for reading.

The past year hurt in blinding, debilitating, redefining ways, which I found fulfilling, which felt right. It was all about him, and it was amazing. I'm excited, though, for this next year to be about me. To live the life I love, and to let myself love it. He's next to me, communicating with me and circling around me still. One of his most valued themes in life was progression - something he talked about when he delivered grandpa Floyd's life sketch, something that was later quoted in his own. I don't want to bore him. I know he's ready to see my own progression.

I know how lofty this post is, I totally do. And I always like to close with something inappropriate and irreverent like a your mom joke or something about the trans-fat food-flush I like to put my body through every other day. But that's really it for now. I will post gratuitous pictures of bacon, children, and nature. And most importantly, yours truly in the air, womanballs of steel in the friendly skies. Year two is a go.

Love always and always,

Your mom.