"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality."
--Edgar Allen Poe
Ah, the exquisite horror of reality. A mother knows it well. At least this one does. It seems Mr. Poe was well acquainted with my life.
Exhibit A.
"Wow, Mom, I hope brother's tummy feels better soon. But if it doesn't and it's appendicitis and he dies, I hope he comes back with a cool story about heaven. Please pass the syrup."
In related news, today the dog brought me half a dead blackbird. I repeat, HALF-- recognizable only by the remains of it's one small skeletal bird leg. This is my life, in all its raw and cruel morbidity. These moments are exquisitely real, and for that I count myself blessed to live them. No, for me the true horrors lie in the monotony between such moments of substance. And I find at times, like most moms I'm sure, the greatest of courage is required to simply forge headlong into the painfully mundane. Sock matching, anyone? Oh, the horror.
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