I
realize this isn't a rant in the sense of GRRRRR but a rant nonetheless.
Chris and I go out New Year’s Eve. We pay
David to be the designated driver. To my surprise, Ginet shows up with her friend Logan. I'm leery about Ginet's presence. We have a history that came to bad
terms when I had to
leave her father. Now, she is sitting at the table with me, talking, even
joking with my fiancé. We are playing with the hats and the noise makers,
talking about silly things, nothing serious; I won’t touch anything serious at
this point. The whole idea of tonight is to relax. Honestly, I’m not a person
to get smashed in public; a little tipsy, yeah. I’m the responsible one, the
person who will keep some wits to help the person who is smashed—namely, my fiancé.
The last time I was even near smashed was two weeks before Thanksgiving when we
went down to his friend’s in Anderson. So, through all this silliness, we creep
onto the subject of Vincent. At this date, my son has been gone nearly two
years, passing away due to cancer. Vincent loved having fun on New Year’s Eve. The
last one I remember is the night at his older sister’s place (the daughter who
has said I am dead to her). The dancing he did. The jokes he made from nothing.
He found humor in places that most didn’t think possible. I would say his humor
was close to Robin Williams. Right now, I envision Vincent in place of Fluffy
(Gabriel Iglesias). Vincent was never Fluffy, not even close to Fluffy;
Vincent, according to Gabriel’s measurements would be twig. Anyhow, we are trying to be Vincent now. It isn’t working. The
alcohol in me is plenty. I know it is time to stop just by how my emotions are
playing out. I don’t like the feeling of watching myself from within my body. I
begin to cry. Chris is still somewhat able to respond. He notices. He hugs me
tight, kisses me, says, “I love you; it’s okay.” He tells David. David kneels
himself in front of me, and says, “Don’t think about it.” Then Ginny figures
out what is going on. She yells across the table (over the music, which is
country at the moment), saying, “Don’t cry. Don’t think. Have fun.” I cry more.
Before I know it, she is hugging me, speaking into my ear, “I love you Mom; I
miss him too; don’t make me cry.” The first three words echo between my ears: “I
love you.” How long had it been since she said those words and meant them? The last
time I heard her say these words I knew she had forced it, had not really meant
them. I cry harder. In the years of Vincent’s illness and the divorce, I loss
three children: Vincent to cancer, Jessica to hatred, bitterness, and lies, and
Ginet to confusion and lies.
Ginny has returned; however, my heart is still leery. I’m afraid
to get too close. Right now, we work on friendship. After a birthday party for
William, she comes by the house to tan—no prying eyes where I live. She asks me
what I think of her boyfriend. I can’t tell her much because I’ve only seen him
once, and we didn’t talk: “He looks like a hillbilly.” “Hell, he’s a redneck, just
like I like ‘em!” I smile and shake my head: “As long as you are happy.”
