Thinking about cookies

My nights in Austin are generally marked by one common denominator... insomnia. For some reason I never seem to sleep well when I first arrive. The past few weeks have been remarkably restful, though the past few days have been a return to the old way.

That said, I'm going to tell you a story from today.

I was chatting online with a friend about cookies. Somehow, we got onto the subject of the kind with butterscotch chips and chow mein noodles. I forget what she called them, but I've always called them birds nests and we made them in my Bluebird troop.

I started to explain what Bluebirds was, and how I got started in it, when I realized I didn't really know how the troop at Harvest Hills got started. For me, it was sort of just there, and it's what that little bunch of us all did. It occurred to me that I could ask my dad, and he may or may not be able to give me an answer. You know who would have known, though? Mom. Without a doubt. This thought, when it popped into my head prompted a flood of tears unlike any I've seen in a while. I attempted to sob quietly, as my roommate and her boyfriend were across the hall (so I thought, turns out they were gone).

Generally speaking, I like to think of myself as a thinker. I can ponder the notionof death and dying and all the things that go along with losing vital parts of your family. I like to think that I'm able to consider logically, spiritually and biologically, with an understanding of how and why these things happen.

Tonight, though, you get no such poetic musings on the meaning of life. No rhapsodizing on the beauty of grief and the changes it's wrought on our lives.

Sorry, but tonight you get the following:

This is not fair. And that, to borrow the words of a fellow Griefshare member, totally sucks.