March 11th (or today).  I cannot sleep.  It's my mother's birthday, except that she's not here to celebrate it.  She passed on about five years ago.  So I'm up, trying to think happy thoughts to stir up some warmth in my heart.  And, luckily, one has come to mind, surrounding my handwriting and a sweet surprise I'd found in my mother's nightstand a short time after the funeral.  

I toyed with script handwriting when I was fifteen, a step-up from my childhood graffiti obsession (which I returned to fairly recently 'cause I'll never stop loving it).  I was immensely bored and nerdy and found solace at our kitchen table, particularly when avoiding homework (and other major school assignments) until the last possible minute.  Over and over again, I'd sign my name on a piece of paper, making each entry different and unique with slashes and colors and dots and decorations and so forth.  Just one sheet of paper is all it took for this mission, too, and I'd use every space available on both sides.

When I was all done with a handwritten project, I'd stare at it, trying to find the best looking entry.  But as an artistic perfectionist, I never found a good enough scribble.  So I'd leave the paper on the table, electing to come back to it later... in an effort to refresh my perception or simply add to our recycling bin.

However, I guess there must have been an afternoon in which I forgot to look-over my work. 

After my mother's funeral, I searched for old photos and small knickknacks in her nightstand-- really, anything to keep her memory alive-- that I could bring home with me.  And beneath the crushing weight of to-do lists, store coupons, pens and an assortment of tiny books and manuals lay a small and defenseless clipping; a small, rectangular paper displaying an old, faded image of my name in script.

Sigh.

On a less cushy note, March 11th was also the day that we welcomed "Lucky", our first cat, into our home.  Lucky was Siamese with bright, blue eyes, a loud meow, sharp nails and a toxic bladder.  He slept in my bed, beneath the blanket, purring and nuzzling into my belly night after night.  And throughout the day, he enjoyed chasing Tonka trucks and Micro Machines until they'd become stuck beneath our washer, far from his reach.

Lucky lived a long life, dying of natural causes at the ripe ol' age of twenty ("in human years", you fuckzoids).


March 17th.  St. Patrick's day, also known as the day in which my mother passed on.  If you're reading this, try to be nice to me on this day or I'll punch you in the nuts. 

It's no surprise that she left our douchey planet on this day.  My mother loved (and lived for) saints, and our apartment resembled a Botanica.