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Sunday, September 26, 2010

Comments

Lucy

Gasp!

I think it would be incredibly stimulating to just sit beside you and watch you think. The thoughts and your poetic way of describing them stun me. I mean...Amy...you were running. On the provo River trail. With probably 100s of BYU coeds. And you saw a bug and you turned out this.

What talent! What depth! What haunting beauty! It's not easy to not be morose when describing old men, cancer, stroke victims, Alzheimers, and crushed bugs but you weren't. You wove beauty and courage and defiant joy into their decay. And, yes, some pain.

I'm really quite speechless (though it doesn't appear that way).

wendy

Beautifully written, Amy. I'm irritated at whoever stepped on them. I love your train of thought.

becky

Sniff. Poor little mantises. I love them. and describing them as old men is just perfect. I can see them, bleached and weary on the trail.

Love this post. It makes me ache to read it. In so many ways. I'm glad I'm not the only one who looks for surrogate fathers in the men that surround us. I don't have many to pick from. I just wish the one I started out with was still around. I mean, the one we used to know, not the one with the vacant eyes. I wish he could go on. Not for me, but for him. So that his eyes could see more than what is here. Or maybe they already do, but are still limited by earth.

And it is a torment, isn't it? Wondering whose lesson is being taught and to whom. Maybe it's all of us.

Kim

I never fail to read something I need to hear when I visit your blog. Yes, I'd choose lingering, too. I'm so glad I had the chance to say all the goodbyes I needed to say to my Dad, to know he REALLY KNEW how much I loved him. And the mantises? I'd have seen them as old women, but the same way you did. And I would have felt seeing them as a gift. I hope I have my face in the sun and friends around me when it's my time to go.

Wendy

I second every thing Lucy said. You have such an incredible gift and I am so blessed that I can be near it!

My father-in-law is a lingerer. When John came home from his visit there last weekend, he said again (for what, the hundredth time?) "Mom doesn't think he's going to make it to his next birthday." She takes utmost care of him despite the fact that it is killing her. I can't even begin to think about how I would feel if it were my own father, but John barely talks about it.

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