Home in Livingston tonight and so grateful, that like the Pope in his spryer days, I got off the plane and wanted to kiss the very ground. Instead, I threw myself into the arms of Wendy-the-Buddhist, who came to pick me up, and surrendered to the comfort of a good friend who was there when I arrived exhausted and brewing a viscous cold (I sound like a frog). So now I’m on my couch, both dogs sprawled asleep beside me, the cat in my face purring in her semi-aggresive “where did you go for a week” kind of way. The…
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My friend Debra, who, when I clutched the phone, sitting on my porch step rocking back and forth and unable to breathe, and gasped out the terrible news the assistant coroner had brought into my yard; my friend Debra who said “honey, I’m hanging up to call the airlines, I’ll be there as soon as I can get there” has written a lovely piece about Patrick and our life in Livingston and the way people have rallied around. It’s here, at map on the endpapers. I have been “home” in the suburb where I was raised. It has not been…
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James Patrick McGuinn September 13, 1965-September 29, 2003 “He was my North, my South, my East, my West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song: I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.” W.H. Auden My younger brother (known on this blog as the Darling Brother, or DB), my most boon companion, my only sibling, has been killed in a car wreck. Blogging will resume when I can think straight again, and unfortunately, the tone here at LivingSmall will never be quite the same. Pray for us.