Masquerade

I don't want to go outside where the temperature dips below zero. I'm wearing my new nightgown and socks (thanks Mom and Fran) and red robe (thanks sis). The house, cozy and warm, with a ray of sunlight filtering above the Christmas tree, casts a shadow around the stained glass horse and prisms off my gorgeous amethyst window pendant, smells like Mayan coffee, which I just brewed.

I'm glad the girls pushed back one of the boards separating their side of the barn from the hay, so they can pull down pieces of grass to quiet their rumbling, fat and furry bellies.

Ok, I finally went out to feed the girls and get wood. Thank goodness the wind has no howl in it.

I'm taking Sandra out to lunch this afternoon, and when I come home, I'll hem up my velvet black pants and get ready for the Masquerade Ball.

I purchased a hand crafted mask in Cabo San Jose for the occasion, but really, sometimes I feel like I always wear a mask to cover the question mark that squeezes my heart like a vice.

Thirty-eight women were selected to attend Hedgebrook, an all female writing retreat. My name did not appear on the list. I use the skin cream that my niece Amin made to salve the new wound created by another rejection. I’d hoped to work on “Sifting Through Ashes” there, perhaps find a mentor or editor to help me complete it.

My demons have escaped from the attic and dance with delight. What makes me think I deserve such an honor? Who cares about my words, my story, my heartache, the demons chant. Did I not murder my son by buying him the car that killed him? Instead of setting up more boundaries, I gave him his freedom and as a result, he died.

Words elude me, so I finished two oil paintings. I kept painting the same image, the beaver pond where DaNae and I scattered some of Nik's ashes. The oil paint has a rich, thick texture that feels good on my skin. I couldn’t get the grass right, so I composed "Storm Horses," inspired by one of Viggo Mortenson's photos. And I actually like the results.

I'll don my new mask this evening, relishing the heavy leather that covers my grief. I’ll haul food to the Masquerade, help Jean set up, hang out for awhile, get a couple dances in, drive home, stoke the fire, and then head to Jenny's to play Bananas and watch fireworks when 2011 dawns.

Cabo

I am a reluctant traveler. But Nik's death has at least taught me to jump over my fear, to say yes to adventure and to friends and family. And so, without any hemming or hawing, I flew to Cabo with my daughter DaNae, fabulous friend, Monique, and her daughter, Kendra.

Cabo was wind and surf and sand and alcohol. The Sea of Cortez stretched out across my horizon. Ad infinitum. Everyone went out drinking but I sat inside and relished some alone time to savor the experience of walking through shop after shop where vendors said, “Senora, come inside to buy something you don’t need,” and the heat of the day sat on my shoulder like a warm hand.

I kept seeing Nik in the Cholo’s, the Vatos, the surfboarders and the ninos that sold trinkets on the beach. I saw him in the dark eye brows, the taste of seviche, the full Mexican smiles and in my daughter’s grin. And thoughts of Nik always leave an empty space, a question mark, next to my heart.

The sand filled my sandals and stuck to the crevisses of my skin, between my toes and in my underpants. A textured roughness that reminded me, yes, I am alive here in this dimension, with the blue skies burning my skin, trudging over this terrain, tripping over cobblestones, trotting horses with the sunset, snorkling with sea lions and skipping with waves.

We took a glass bottom boat to the great arc that divides the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific. I saw Nik on top of the arc—a halo, an angel, an illusion created by the sun filling this place in time with his memory. And I wish he was there on that spot, laughing and body surfing with his sister, the two of them tied together into eternity, safe and sound.