Posted on August 12 , 2015 by amywitkop Reply The other day I saw someone wearing a shirt that was bright neon green . On the front of the left breast , was a word I couldn 't quite read . The text was laid out in a way that made the word look like AMY TH . I was having a conversation with this person and at the same time was trying to work out what the letters meant . " Why was my name on her shirt ? " " What does that say . " And then the letters came in and out of focus and the words finally appeared . A MYTH . And for the first time in my life I realized my name was in A MYTH . It was a message from the myths themselves . I 've been studying myths in my own time for over 12 years now and I could probably say that most of my life has been dedicated to studying myth , or maybe the myths were studying me . When I was small I would walk through my small town , from the far end where my house was , to the swamp , to the woods , from blackberry brambles to tall weeds and the Mill Pond , Cromaine Library , The Village Market , to the cemetery . The cemetery was one of my favorite places . In the cemetery , there was no sound , I couldn 't hear my brothers and sisters , no one hits you in the cemetery , no yells , and no one cares that you are not where you are supposed to be , which is usually wherever you are . So , before leaving the house I would get two slices of American cheese and 8 saltine crackers , put them in a paper towel , hide them under my shirt so no one would ask what I was doing or where I was going and I would run . Run , run as fast as I could - to the cemetery , down the back dirt path , down Henry street , along the painted black wrought iron fence on the outside of the cemetery , to the back entrance , down a short pathway , to a statue of the Virgin Mary . She stood facing me , with her arms held out as if she wanted me to be there . As if she welcomed me . I 'd sit down on her concrete pedestal and open my feast of cheese and crackers and give one to Mary and one to me . I would tell Mary all my worries , which were many , even at that time . She was someone I could talk to . Where I could pour out all the things that I could not feel , that I could not hold inside of me any longer , and for a moment , feel better . After telling Mary my woes , I 'd stand up , turn around , look up at her , her concrete face with sun shining on it , look down to the crackers and cheese left for her , say goodbye and run , run , run , off to some other place in town . My family had no religion , although my Mother would tell anyone that would listen that she was Catholic , as if they couldn 't tell from the 10 kids she had given birth to . The only signs of religion in our home were in her bedroom , one cross with Jesus nailed to it , her rosary , and her communion bible , which were hidden away in her banged up jewelry box . She had to deliver her communion in Polish , don 't you know ? This is all I knew . She didn 't pass this religion on to us . I have no idea why and I never asked and I never told anyone that I shared these secret moments with Mary . If I had been wise at the time - I would have seen that this was the beginning of A Myth of my lifetime . AMYTH , with my name in it . The Virgin Mother , the idea of the good Mother , the Mother Mary , my first altar , the anti - masculine , the divine feminine , where I offered food and my thoughts to the purest myth there is . AND now I cannot un - see it . Whenever I see the two words together I know " I am a myth " . I have to laugh and almost squeal in delight because for me , this was a small sign from the universe that says , you 're on the right path . Keep going . You got it . GO ! I was in Charleston , South Carolina recently , a place that I once called home . A place that echoes a mysterious call to me . The food , the Charleston drawl , the landscape - the secrets . Walking around in the older parts of Charleston , I can almost hear the whispers of hundreds of years of history . I can also hear and feel the pain of those whispers . Some of those whispers are my own . On that trip , I ended up on a boat with some friends and friends of friends and some older white men and women who were obviously from money , or trying to seem like they were from money . Some were dressed in Polo shirts and khakis that were ever so crisp , others layered with beautiful linens and looked ever so " done " . Makeup , hair , clothes all in perfect alignment . We were surrounded by beauty , the inlets off Morgan Creek , the scent of pluff mud , the green grasses and marshy water , the sun high overhead with a cool breeze . As the booze flowed and we made our way through fresh oysters and beaufort stew with shrimp caught that very morning , conversations broke off into groups . Music and a little dancing began , it was exactly as Charleston should be . I sat on the edge of the boat looking off into the marsh , remembering other days , other times and was sinking into happiness , when off to the other side of the boat I overhead a man , late 60s early 70s say something about " some nigger " . My heart dropped and my chest puffed out , did I hear that ? And then he said it again . I thought to myself " I 've got to say something right now . He cannot say that . " Instead of jumping right up and marching over there , I was paralyzed . I 'm on a boat with people I do not know , some are colleagues of one of my friends . I want to go say something to this man and let him know it is not okay to say that in front of me , in front of anyone . And yet , I cannot move , I 'm a character in this story , this is not my story . It 's not my place , my people , I do not have to work with these people , my friends do . It reminded me of a time when I was in college as a Sophomore at the College of Charleston , it was a Friday , I was in my dorm room and there were parties going on out on the breezeway and in some rooms . My roommates and I were having beers . I went out on the breezeway and was smoking and just down the way were some Citadel cadets , obvious because of their haircuts . I didn 't know them , but one called out to me " Hey dyke ! " I looked and said " What ? What did you call me ? " he said " You 're a dyke right ? " I was seething , but what could I say back ? I didn 't identify as a dyke , I 'm definitely gay , but I 'm not all that butch or anything . I 'm also a Sophomore in college , still trying to figure things out in life . What do I say ? On that day on a boat in Charleston , the whispering of old Charleston sat right beside me and I said nothing . I didn 't have the courage to speak up in the same way that Brandon did . It wouldn 't have mattered , to anyone , but me . It would have mattered to me . And I have to admit , I let myself down that day . Posted on November 27 , 2014 by amywitkop 6 I 'm dusting this off again this year . This memory never gets old for me . Happy for thanks and happy forgiving . I remember my Mother . The way her hands moved over raw turkey , salting and buttering under the skin . She was mindful about food and set in her ways about how this or that should be done , when it came to cooking . All ten of us kids were banished from the kitchen , but I would watch - from a distance - in wonder - at how she made things - all from scratch - all on more than a tight budget . She 'd mash with an old hand masher , thick grooved metal at the end and a wooden handle that used to be red , but was mostly worn down to the wood . I 'd add things . In her way . Butter first . She 'd hand me a butter knife and put a stick of butter on the table , still cold in the wrapper . " We 've got to add this butter while the potatoes are hot . " I 'd slice off inch after inch of butter , unwrap and throw it into the pan - all as fast as I could . She 'd mash and then stop to look into the pan . " More butter . " I 'd slice , unwrap and throw in again . " See there , it 's not all white anymore . " Then milk . She 'd mash and I 'd pour into the old battered , but still solid cooking pot . My small hands balancing the gallon jug of milk , one hand at the top , one at the bottom . " Not too much milk . " She 'd mash and mash . " Potatoes should be creamy , not too thick , not too thin . Add some more milk . " Bang . She 'd hit the side of the pan with the masher . The potatoes fell back with a thud . " More milk . " More mashing - Bang - the potatoes fall back - with a lightness . Then pepper . " You should see the right amount of pepper all through the potatoes . " I 'd shake and shake , the pepper never came out of the pepper shaker very fast . " See that 's right , now you can see pepper everywhere . " Then salt to taste . I 'd shake the not really white anymore , plastic Tupperware shaker with the broken lid , a few times . " Potatoes need a lot more salt than you think , Amy . " I 'd shake and shake and laugh , so much shaking . She 'd press on , now with more stirring than mashing , fluffing up the potatoes . She 'd drop a finger into the pan and bring potatoes up to her mouth . The back of her hand would come into focus . Thin and thick at the same time , veins standing out , small brown spots , always tan , but not leathery . Their smell in my mind without ever smelling them , onions , salt , butter , flour - it 's as if she had been cooking her whole life . " Mmmm , but not yet , more salt , a little more milk . " I 'd pour and scramble to keep up . And then bang , bang , bang , the masher on the side of the pot , to shake off all the mashed potato stuck to the masher . With me standing on the chair next to the table - she 'd hand over the masher . I 'd scrape it clean with my hands , shoveling what was left into my mouth - jump down - turn on the sink - rinse the masher and throw it into the sink with another bang . When I was 11 my parents left me with my two brothers - I 've written about this before in TODD . As we approached Christmas , I began to work on this piece about Christmas , but couldn 't finish it until now . It 's not that I hold onto these memories and dwell on them , it 's more like they hold onto me . The Holidays are hard for me , but not as hard as they used to be . Instead of avoiding the memories , I now embrace them in this way or that and they are only a part of the story I have lived . They don 't rule my life , they don 't define me now , but they are a reflection of my experiences and I can 't help but think about them from time to time . Mom calls once a week and talks to Bobby and Johnny , I sometimes talk to her and sometimes I don 't get a turn . When I do talk to her , I don 't know what to say . I just listen to her breathe on the phone . I wish she were home and I want to tell her that , but I don 't know how to make the words come out of my mouth . She sounds happier being away , she laughs , she 's fishing , going to the flea market and visiting with people and Dad is working . I like her to be happy . So , I don 't tell her anything about me or how I 'm feeling , because I don 't know . Mom is on the other end of the phone and she says , " We got you something you 've always wanted for Christmas . You 'll love it . We 're sending it in a box with some other things and it will get there right before Christmas . " As I look back today , I wonder what I thought she was sending . Love ? Safety ? Security ? What had I always wanted ? That 's what I needed , but I couldn 't say it . I didn 't know how and back then - I didn 't know that 's what I wanted . A week or more pass and Johnny and Bobby have decided they will get a Christmas tree , but not put it in the living room where we usually have it when Mom is here , but they will put it in Mom and Dad 's bedroom , which they have turned into the living room and the old living room is now the sitting room . Looking back , none of us belonged in that life , I wanted to be spectacular and they wanted a sitting room . We were made for better times and things . We tromp through the snow and the woods to find the tallest tree that will fit in the house and they chop it down - because they love to chop things , kick things , build things , fix things . They drag it back to the house and get it into the stand and decorate . I don 't like decorating , because whatever I put on the tree is not right and not in the right place - according to them . So , eventually I give up and sit on the couch . I eat some chewy Christmas candy left over from last year . They string the lights , put ornaments on , throw tinsel all over and then decide it is time to decorate the GIANT pine tree outside . The tree outside is so tall that I cannot see the top when I look up , I have to go out into the yard to see the top . I warn them about climbing that tree . " Remember Johnny - how you broke your arms climbing the tree across the street . Mom says don 't climb trees . " They laugh as if I 'm crazy and get a ladder and a big mess of lights and go out into the yard . The way Mom tells the story about Johnny 's fall is : " You were in the bathtub and I had to get you out fast because someone ran up to the door and said Johnny was hurt . So I pulled you out and told you get dry and dressed and ran to the front door . When I got there - I saw his arms and they were all crooked . And I took a deep breath and said someone run and get Ardis and see if she can drive us to the hospital . And then Johnny said " I 'm sorry Mom . " That 's all he said . That 's it . Broken arms and all and he said he was sorry . He didn 't cry one tear when they set them back in place . He was so brave . " All I remember was I had wet hair and was running a comb through it and I peeked out at Johnny and his arms were all twisted around , his wrists going in the wrong direction . I felt light - headed and sat down and combed my hair some more . He came home with casts up to the elbow on each arm and laid on the couch for a week or more and someone had to help him pee . I 'm glad it wasn 't me . That 's how I tell the story . They work for hours on that tree making sure every bulb is in the right place and when they are finished it 's the best Christmas tree I 've ever seen in person . Big red , green and blue bulbs light up and shine bright . We laugh and it 's fun being out with these guys in the snow putting up Christmas lights , even though I 'm only watching . I would like to be a dare - devil and climb that tree , but there is no way I want to break my arms so I 'm not doing it . A few days later , when I get home from school Bobby and Johnny are busy doing something , wrapping something and laughing . It 's the last day of school before Christmas and I am home now for the week , it 's Wednesday and I only have to wait two days until Christmas , but really only one day to open presents - on Christmas Eve . That tradition started because my Dad used to be with his other family on Christmas day . The one he was married to and not us and that is an entirely different story for another time . I 'm happy to be off school , but bored because I know I 'll be listening to a whole lot of Billy Joel and Foreigner on my Dad 's 8 - track player that is now in the sitting room . These guys listen to it non - stop , so loud that I can 't watch TV . They come out of the living room and say , " You can take a look now . " I don 't care anymore , but that small part of me that hopes for something special goes to take a look . The tree is full underneath with what looks like 30 or more presents all wrapped with bows and some even have a ribbon around them . There is one giant box in the back corner of the tree , almost behind it . " Guess . " I 'm really not into this whole thing of guessing . I 'm never right , so I don 't guess and sit on the couch again . On Christmas Eve , Johnny says " Let 's open presents on Christmas morning like normal people . " Bobby says " Yeah , that 's what normal people do . " I do not want to do this so I grumble around and get mad and punch the couch , but I know they are not going to change their minds . So , we watch some TV and drink soda , eat candy and eventually I fall asleep on the couch . We open socks and underwear and I open a new nightgown and some other things that don 't matter . There is wrapping paper everywhere , all over the living room . Bobby brings me the big box . My stomach flutters as I peel back the paper and pull back the tape on the top of the box . I close my eyes and open the box , it 's full of packing peanuts . I scoop handfuls out and onto the floor and then I see something . Gray and dark , so I dig on and I see more of something gray and dark and I stop and tears flow and flow and flow . I scoot back from the box and cry . " ROCKS ! " I scream " They sent me rocks ? " I can see on their faces - they realize - they were playing a joke - but I do not think this is a joke and it is not funny . " Amy , Amy , it 's okay , really there is a present in there , we just thought it would be funny to put rocks in there . There really is a present in there Amy , seriously . " I scoot back further . " I don 't want it . I don 't care . You are the meanest people I have ever known " I sob , sniffing snot back . I look and they have a brown plastic box in their hands . I rip it out of their hands and open it . It 's a silver watch with digital time - something I have always wanted . I pull it out of the box , it has a stretchy metal band on it . I pull back the band and slide it over my wrist . It feels cheap on my arm , like a play toy . I pull it off and throw it down . " I don 't want it . It 's like everything else , cheap . They probably got it at a flea market . " I put some jeans on , pull on a sweatshirt , two pairs of socks and my boots . Put my coat on , slam the door and walk to the woods where everything is quiet . In the middle of the trees and snow - I stand and cry again , the cold feels good on my hot wet face . Posted on March 26 , 2013 by amywitkop 5 I 've thought about this time in my life a lot lately . It 's hard to imagine me at 11 processing these feelings on my own . I think it all adds up , all the grief , you remember , even if you don 't remember consciously your body remembers and while I do believe if you work with it and acknowledge it , it helps in the letting go - there are still times that it comes back . One Sunday evening I am staring at nothing out the front windows in the kitchen and see a small black cat , sauntering - yes , he is sauntering - up the left set of stairs . He 's a tiny little thing with bright green eyes . " Oh look , a black cat , " I yell to my partner , Julie . " What ? " she says , running into the kitchen , leaning toward the window . He walks right up the steps onto the back patio . Julie is absolutely and utterly excited about the prospect of another cat . She grabs the cat food and rushes outside , sprinkling it on the ground . Not too rushed , though . " I don 't want to scare him off , " she says . I stand inside for a moment and eventually move to the doorway with the door nearly shut behind me so Isabel , the cat that lives with us , doesn 't run out . " Oh , he 's so skinny - he must not have a home . His head looks so big because he 's too skinny . " She is knelt down next to him , but not too close , barely touching him . I can see his tiny ribs , black fur flecked with gray . He is older than I would have thought , his skin sagging a little . The shining smile in Julie 's eyes when she looks up at me has me feeling momentarily outrageous , so much so that I want to shout out , " Let 's keep him ! " " We 'll call him Todd , since his head is so big - after Big Head Todd and the Monsters , " she says . I feel it in my heart , yes , let 's keep him . What happens next is how it always is with me - my brain and my body take over . My old memories flood back to me , and I hate using the word flood to describe emotions , but it is what it feels like . I can 't turn it off . I can talk myself through it , but I can 't turn it off . The images that come to me are the way they are . I can 't really say it out loud either . So I brood on it and sit there , feeling something stuck in my throat , as if to speak it would cause me great harm , but it 's in there and it wants to come out . So much so that this little cat has become a metaphor in my life for the words that I need to speak , that I need to say aloud to help myself and possibly to help someone else . Some part of me believes this . We don 't end up adopting him , but in a way , he adopts me - appearing at just the right times over the next few months to help me remember and pull up these old memories . Coincidence ? I think not - Carl Jung says what doesn 't come to you in consciousness comes to you as fate . For me , Todd is both . So while the world is going on , Julie talking about the cat outside and how he must not have a home and we 'll have to feed him and this and that , I try to distract myself , doing something on the computer or my phone , playing a game , drinking a glass of wine - but that 's not where I am . I 'm not even in my body . I 'm in a field in Hartland , Michigan , and I am 11 . I 'm in a field of tall grass in the heat of summer . Sweat drips and drops off of me . My blonde hair is pasted against my neck and face . I 'm not a very sweaty kid , I 'm more of misty kid . Sweat covers me most days from head to toe when it 's hot . I 've never liked the heat even though I was born in the summer . It gives me a headache . I wish I did like summer . Everyone else can 't wait until it comes around , but I 'm too fair - skinned to ever fall in love with it . Most summer days I 'm inside , in the water or somewhere cool . If not , I 'm likely complaining and miserable , because I can 't stand the heat . But not today . Today , I 'm out in the field next to our home in Hartland , Michigan , just three lines in from my thumb , that 's where I live on the map . I 'm playing with a bunch of kittens . They are the sweetest things ever , their tiny green eyes and soft baby fur . I love them so much I 'll even stand right in the heat of the sun for them . I whisper to them - things I 've never heard anyone say to me . " I love you , little kitten . " Always in a hush . I know if someone hears they 'll tease me . We don 't say such things at my house and I don 't know why we don 't , but we don 't and if you even think of such things , someone will call you a baby , an asshole , a witch or something worse . " You 're my best friends . " Grinning as I tell them . A tear wells in the corner of my eye when I say it . I don 't know why that tear does that . I blink it back . " No sense crying over some silly cats . " That 's what I tell myself whenever I start to worry about something I shouldn 't or can 't do anything about . I 'm 11 , crying is for babies . " No sense crying over that . " The cats are tiny , maybe six or eight weeks old , two gray , one black , and two black and white - " a mixed breed , " Momma would say . I 've named each of them after someone famous , someone I might be like when I grow up . I wouldn 't ever tell anyone their names . It 's a secret between me and my kittens and if I did tell someone theyMomma and Daddy have been gone for nearly a year - I 'm not sure they are ever coming back . Daddy , who is this old guy with wispy gray hairs on the top of his head , always covered by a trucker hat or a Greek fisherman 's hat , even though he is not Greek or a trucker , pulled me aside one day and dragged me into the park , which made me want to scream and run away because he gives me the creeps . I get that feeling inside that says something bad is about to happen whenever I am alone with him , and for all the things I don 't feel or don 't admit - that 's one thing I do listen to . He promised he just had something to tell me and wouldn 't do anything bad , so I went with him into the park - and tell me something he did . He told me , with his old coffee breath streaming right out of his mouth into my nose and out the top of my head , that he and Momma were leaving to find work and they 'd come back to get me . I didn 't really believe him because I hardly know him and in my family we don 't trust people we don 't know . I also didn 't know what to say . So I stood there in silence and pretended it wasn 't going to happen . I never knew Daddy before last year when he moved in with us . No one ever even told me he was moving in . I only overheard Momma saying to one of the older kids , " We need him . We 'll have a better life if he 's around . " I haven 't seen anything better since he 's been around . Anyone who was old enough to move out of the house did , right away . Johnny and Bobby are the only ones left with me . With Daddy moved in , the rules changed fast . No TV , unless you wanted to watch PBS , which is the most terrible channel I 've ever watched . We ate microwave food instead of real food and it didn 't taste good . Momma didn 't watch TV with us anymore , she played cards with him and I had to go to bed at 9 : 00 . Before that I always stayed up past 11 : 00 . Momma and Daddy left me with Johnny and Bobby . Johnny is 18 and Bobby is 16 . Johnny is in charge because he is older , taller than Bobby , and Daddy for that matter , and has a job . He doesn 't go to school anymore , because he quit . I don 't know why he quit , he never told me , and I never asked . He just stopped going one day and that was that . People do this kind of thing all the time in my family , they stop doing something or start doing something and never explain anything and no one asks and it seems no one even cares . Why would you ask anyway ? I 'm so sad that Momma left me here and is off doing something with Daddy . I yell at Bobby and antagonize him , until he can 't stand it any longer and he hits me or chases me or holds me down and tickles me until I pee my pants , then he laughs at me and I 'm humiliated , which actually makes me feel better than crying about missing Momma . That 's how we work through things around here . We don 't ever talk about a thing and wouldn 't know what you meant if you asked how we were feeling . I 'd respond with " I 'm alive aren 't I ? That 's good enough for me . " But on the inside , I tell you , there 's something dark in me that would love to just jump in the pond and go under the water and never ever come back out . Just stay at the bottom all cried out and dead . I much prefer living with Johnny and Bobby than having Daddy leering and lurking around every corner being weird and making me watch PBS . I sure do miss Momma though , but I never tell anyone that I do . It 's fun sometimes being with Bobby and Johnny . They let me stay up late , they give me money to leave them alone , and I go to the store and buy candy . They take me with them to places with this loud music playing - I feel like a wild animal , doing whatever comes into my head ! Sometimes , though , I wish I were not here but somewhere else , where it 's just me and Momma . These little kittens I have out in the field with me are like me . Well , not really . Their Momma kitty comes back and brings them food and they get milk from her sometimes , but they are kind of growing up on their own , just like me . Nobody tells me nothing about nothing about growing up , except wash your face , don 't chew with your mouth open and don 't wear that goddamn baseball hat every day . I try to act normal whenever I get in front of anyone I haven 't met before or when I 'm at school and everyone else seems to know what they are supposed to be doing , but I 'm just lost , walking around looking for someone to tell me what to do . But there isn 't anyone to tell me . These kittens are my only real friends . I know a few kids from school and from around town , but I don 't trust anyone outside my family . I can 't be honest with them . I might end up in a foster house or an orphanage or something worse , and I think the evil and good you know are better than the ones you don 't . It 's a sunny morning in the summer , the middle of June , before Bobby 's birthday , which is on the 25th . He is about to turn 17 . In my mind , he 's a slob and an ugly - faced pig , but in reality , he 's a sweet - looking boy with a swath of blond hair that 's unruly but handsome all the same . His eyes are twinkling blue , just like mine and just like Momma says Daddy 's are , but I 've seen Daddy and his eyes look old and gray , not twinkling at all . Bobby 's tall and trim and wears a pair of tight swim shorts when he works in the yard . Secretly I love him so much I 'd like to hug him , but I 'll never , ever mention that to anyone , not ever . I 'm out in the sun twirling around in the dirt and I see Bobby and my sister Jenny 's husband , Fred . Fred used to smoke a lot of pot and sell it right out of the kitchen in their trailer . Since they have two kids now , he stopped doing that . Fred seems old to me , 25 , with his long black ponytail and scraggly beard . They 're kind of whispering , but whispering in the way that boys do , not whispering at all . Fred says , " Man , there 's about 20 cats around here , I 've got no idea how in the hell so many cats popped up so fast , but we 've got to take care of them . The best way to do it is either put them in a bag and throw them in the pond , or put them in a bag and bury them in a hole . " I stop still from my twirling around and around and stare at the dirt . I 'm stiff like a board and I want to scream at them " Don 't kill my friends ! " but I don 't . It wouldn 't change a thing and they might decide to put me in the hole or in the pond as well , and while I would like to die lots of days , I can 't really make myself go through with that whole idea . Bobby slams the screen door to the back shed of our house . When Momma was here she would have yelled , " Don 't slam the goddamn door . " But she 's not here so no one cares . I don 't like the slam of the door , but it doesn 't bother me enough to start something with Bobby . He comes back out of the house with a shovel . He strips off his shirt and throws it over one of the three laundry lines we have hanging from the house to the old falling - down barn that has an outhouse connected to it . It 's not a working outhouse - someone filled the holes with dirt . Bobby 's back is brown from sun and I notice muscle on him that I 've never seen before . This summer he 's working on the hay farm for the first time ever . I don 't think he likes it too much but it 's the only work he can get . His mouth is closed tight and straight across - he 's on a mission . I stand out of the way with my back against the scraped - up house . We scraped the house last year and painted it , but didn 't have enough paint for the back of the house or the back shed , so they are rough to the touch and smell deep of rain and wood . It 's a smell that I would take with me in a bottle if I knew how . He marches off to the back right corner of the yard . He 's wearing his swimming shorts , his white tube socks and his blue Trax shoes from Kmart . I hate Kmart . I 'd rather go to the mall , but we can 't afford anything at the mall so we shop at Kmart once a year for clothes . He jabs the shovel at the ground and jumps up and lands on the top of the shovel with both feet pushing it deep into the ground . He does this over and over and over . I know what he 's doing , but I don 't want to admit it . So I watch and watch and then I get hungry as if nothing is going on at all and go over to where he is . " You want a bologna sandwich ? " I ask . " Get out of here , Amy , " he says , short and quick . Normally I 'd protest and yell something or say something back , but this time I slink off and go and make myself a fried bologna sandwich . I like to cook , and I can 't breathe , can 't breathe , can 't breathe . I lie down on the ground and hold onto it with my hands . The world is spinning out of control . Who puts cats in a bag and buries them ? Why couldn 't I ask what was going on ? Do I have time to dig them up ? There 's got to be some other solution , I know there has to be . I can 't do anything though , I 'm 11 and I 'm just a baby on the inside still . I can 't do anything , the tears drip right out of my head , I can 't blink them back . I hold the grass as if it 's holding me back , keeping me from spinning right off the earth and into another universe , maybe one where cats don 't get put in bags and get thrown into a hole . I know I 'm feeling something but I don 't know what . When I 'm sure Bobby is not around , I go and lie next to that pile of smoothed - over dirt and pretend I hear those famous kittens and in my mind they are singing my name and saying , " Go , Amy - go far away and be alive . " And I know that one day I will . I 'm not going to die here . I 'm not going to die . I will never give up . I will say it over and over and over , I 'm not going to do this . I 'm not going to stay here and be like this . I 'm going to get out . I 'm going to get out . Posted on March 11 , 2013 by amywitkop 9 Wonder dog 's ashes are in the kitchen on the counter in a red and yellow flowered tin . No one asked - plastic bag ? box ? plain silver tin ? I thought this was getting easier and yet - today it 's so much harder . I held back tears at least 10 times . I mean that 's what you are supposed to do - right ? when you can hold them back you do ? when you can 't you don 't ? They all came out later , but in the moment I didn 't want to cry anymore . We picked up Wonder 's ashes at Dignified Pets Cremation and drove to the Oregon Coast with the windows down and Wonder in her tin . Zelda our other dog laid in the back of the car as if nothing was different . The day Wonder died little Z went over to Wonder 's bed and laid down in it , but other than that nothing seems different for her . I asked Wonder for a sign - I know that sounds silly - seeing as I don 't believe in an afterlife . I do believe energy is energy and it has to go somewhere . So , I asked and at the Coast nothing remarkable happened . No sign - okay . We got home , fed Isabel the cat and Zelda and went for a drink and some dinner . We ended up at Cascade Barrel House . We don 't go there that often , but it was a spring - ish / summery kind of day and the only beer I like are sours and it seemed fitting for warm weather . Julie , my partner of partners , my forever dream date , has been amazing through all of this , looks at the menu and says they have a Wonder Red on the special list . I hadn 't told her about asking for the sign and I hadn 't looked at the menu yet . Wonder Red ? A sign ? I don 't know - I 'll take it . I 've never seen a beer called Wonder or another dog called Wonder . So maybe somehow the two mean something . Wonder . Wonder ? It takes me back to when my brother was dying . He was having a hard time coming to terms with it . He was 30 and I was 25 . I didn 't understand it either . He had moved to Portland to be closer to family . I didn 't know that meant he was going to die soon . Looking back , it should have been obvious . He had once been tall and handsome . But now his 6 ' 2 ″ muscly , strong body , had withered to less than 100lbs . He pulled me aside one day , his soft pin - striped button down brushing against my skin , his cane clicking every other step as we walked . It was just after my birthday , where he had given me a diamond earring . Now I see he was trying to tell me something . But at the time , I only wondered why he 'd given it to me . He 'd never given me anything before , except a hard time , like any good big brother . He stopped , his eyes dropped to mine , bending over a little . His blue eyes dancing , " I want to take you to breakfast this week , okay ? Just us , okay ? " " Yeah sure Bob , yeah . " He liked to be called Robert these days , but I could never come to terms with that change . He was Bobby to me . No matter what my Father said years ago about a real man not being called Bobby . He was a real man - an ex - Navy officer . We went to breakfast at his favorite place and he ordered his bacon - soft , not crispy . I thought - who orders bacon in a particular way ? It 's just bacon . That 's how he was though , unlike me he knew what he liked and how he wanted it . I took note that I might want to figure that out one day . I was young . Going to Hawaii was so far removed from my life that the thought of saying yes made me dreamy and so I did . " Yes , I 'll go with you . " Bob ended up in the hospital ten days later . He kept saying he wanted to go home and see his dog Molly . He wanted to be home with her . While people left to get " home " ready for him , I sat on the side of his hospital bed " Do you need more morphine ? " " You know Bob , if there is something after this , could you send me a sign ? I 've wondered if there is something else after this life and I know you understand that . So send me a sign okay ? " I went about life as quickly as I could , working , being busy , getting away from grief . Bob came to me in dreams those first couple of weeks , continuing to talk about his big trip . I thought that was sign enough , but I was young and kept asking him for more signs . I went camping not long after that . I loathe camping , but for some reason I was going camping . One night as a million stars shined down , I looked through the fire and there was Bob standing by a tree and he said - " I 'm still going on that trip . Do you want to go with me ? " I don 't know if it was real or I was delirious from grief , but it scared me , so much so that I yelled " You 're scaring me now ! I can 't do this - you have to go ! " I have not seen my brother again . Was he trying to tell me that there was something after this life or that your energy doesn 't die ? My brother and I agreed before he died that it was the latter . You don 't disappear you live on in some way even if only in the collective thoughts of everyone else . That 's how life goes . We learn from our previous experience , or if we choose not to learn , we might experience it in the same way . For me - when I ask for a sign , I 'll take the first one . Thank you Wonder Red for appearing on a menu . Today , I decided to go to a coffee shop to write . I suppose it is something you have to get used to . There were a lot of people at the coffee shop , old people , young people , more old people , babies . Some reading , some eating , some meeting . I ordered a coffee and one egg and toast , the usual for me . I sat and began . Two people next to me talked about allergies , an older man in a well - worn pair of Chuck Taylor 's read a newspaper , another old man in golf gear and with red , red face read a book and blew his nose in a foghorn sound into a napkin , over and over . A police officer and a large lady with brilliant red hair and flower tattoos as sleeves sit discussing something that seems important . Maybe coffee shops that don 't serve food are a little less crazy ? Or maybe my writer friends who write in coffee shops are crazy ? Normally I write in silence or with baroque music playing - it 's supposed to spur creativity - or with a metronome in the background - the rhythm quiets my mind . I often write down ideas for my next writing session and write a few lines and leave it for a few days or weeks and then come back and bang it right out . I thought I might try that and worked on a few pieces and then I opened a piece I wrote back in January that at the time I believed was the first chapter of my book and all of a sudden I had it . The words they flew onto the page as if from somewhere else and then Guns n Roses - Sweet Child of Mine - came on the overhead in the coffee shop and I knew I must be on the right track . My life IS a story ! Sweet Child of Mine - reminds me of my best friend from college , which were sweet and not so innocent times , and the fact that I was once a sweet innocent child despite my upbringing . I realize about an hour into writing that there is a problem with this writing in a coffee shop idea - at least for me - sometimes the things I write , especially those from my childhood bring me to tears . Here I sit in a coffee shop writing , tears dripping , once in a while . Feeling weird , but going with it anyway .