Sometimes stories rattle around in my head as if my brain were a crazy, lit-up, bell-ringing pinball machine. Ideas, thoughts, memories, stories, like tiny pinball , shoot and scatter about the corners of my mind, pinging and ricocheting—sometimes getting lost into chasm of the unknown never to pop back out, and sometimes, like now, sticking around, always finding some way of continuing to dart around and gain momentum. Just when I think I’m going to lose the last pinball—that’s it—game over—something magical happens and the ball explodes back to life. Such is the same with this story. I can’t seem to stop the pinball and the game points, at this point, have accumulated astronomically. Therefore, I will write.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sweet Dream Little Man
Sometimes stories rattle around in my head as if my brain were a crazy, lit-up, bell-ringing pinball machine. Ideas, thoughts, memories, stories, like tiny pinball , shoot and scatter about the corners of my mind, pinging and ricocheting—sometimes getting lost into chasm of the unknown never to pop back out, and sometimes, like now, sticking around, always finding some way of continuing to dart around and gain momentum. Just when I think I’m going to lose the last pinball—that’s it—game over—something magical happens and the ball explodes back to life. Such is the same with this story. I can’t seem to stop the pinball and the game points, at this point, have accumulated astronomically. Therefore, I will write.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
There Is One For Me
There is one for me.
There is one man out there for me. He’s quietly waiting, working, playing, sleeping, and unaware of me and the love that is to be, but he’s there, nonetheless.
He’s the one who I can share it all with--the hopes, the dreams, and the craziness.
He’s the one who will listen without judgment to all my secrets and, turn, be willing to tell me his.
He is the one who is not afraid to shed a tear when our family pet tragically passes and equally unafraid to chase me to the bedroom and toss me on the bed when he feels playful.
He is the one who hears the thoughts I never speak. He senses my pain, my happiness, and my love for him simply because he can.
He looks at me and sees a lost girl who needs her hand to be held when others see a needy, opinionated bitch. He knows about my past yet asks of me only the present and our future.
He believes I make him whole. He believes in my stories. He believes in me.
He is a happy, fun-loving, loving, giving human being who wakes each day striving to be happier, more fun-loving, and increasingly loving and giving because of me.
He adores his family and takes mine in as his own. He shares those things that are sacred to him and makes me unafraid to share mine as well.
He dances with me in the moonlight in the kitchen in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep and simply smiles when I ask for the one hundredth time if he took the trash out.
When my heart whispers “I need you,” he hears it as a scream from across a crowded room and makes his way to me.
I am, along with his family, a priority. He may not be able to, but will always at least desire to be with me before work.
He will look at me in the morning, hair a mess, bare-faced, wrinkled pajamas and terrible morning breath and see beauty only.
He will notice others—prettier, more successful, younger—but will only smile as he now understands that prettier, more successful and younger is not me—and what he wants most is me.
There is one for me.
There is one man out there for me. He’s quietly waiting, working, playing, sleeping, and unaware of me and the love that is to be, but he’s there, nonetheless.
He’s the one who I can share it all with--the hopes, the dreams, and the craziness.
He’s the one who will listen without judgment to all my secrets and, turn, be willing to tell me his.
He is the one who is not afraid to shed a tear when our family pet tragically passes and equally unafraid to chase me to the bedroom and toss me on the bed when he feels playful.
He is the one who hears the thoughts I never speak. He senses my pain, my happiness, and my love for him simply because he can.
He looks at me and sees a lost girl who needs her hand to be held when others see a needy, opinionated bitch. He knows about my past yet asks of me only the present and our future.
He believes I make him whole. He believes in my stories. He believes in me.
He is a happy, fun-loving, loving, giving human being who wakes each day striving to be happier, more fun-loving, and increasingly loving and giving because of me.
He adores his family and takes mine in as his own. He shares those things that are sacred to him and makes me unafraid to share mine as well.
He dances with me in the moonlight in the kitchen in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep and simply smiles when I ask for the one hundredth time if he took the trash out.
When my heart whispers “I need you,” he hears it as a scream from across a crowded room and makes his way to me.
I am, along with his family, a priority. He may not be able to, but will always at least desire to be with me before work.
He will look at me in the morning, hair a mess, bare-faced, wrinkled pajamas and terrible morning breath and see beauty only.
He will notice others—prettier, more successful, younger—but will only smile as he now understands that prettier, more successful and younger is not me—and what he wants most is me.
There is one for me.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Daddy
You’ve heard me talk about so many members of my family. I’ve written stories on my daughter, my grandsons, my current (and unfortunately former) loves, my siblings, and my Mom. You’ve seen me experiment with words in ways that are unique to only me in order to describe nature, love, lows, and…well….life. What you haven’t heard me talk about is my Dad.
My dad is my idol. My dad is my hero. My dad has loved me unconditionally for 45 years and now I want him to understand what that means to me.
I’ve always thought it incredible that we share a birthday, Dad. So much inside of you is reflected inside of me. Your compassion for people--we always tend to worry about others over ourselves. Your sense of humor—the absolute best. Your pride and stubbornness—that of a Taurus. And your never-ending love for music.
When I stop to write this and close my eyes, the memories of you seem so real and as if they only happened yesterday. I still picture you young, blonde-haired, mischievous blue eyes, with that incredible laugh. You live in my mind as a 25 year old behind Grandpa Lew’s guitar. I like you there. I know you are home behind that guitar. I see the way you sit, the way you close your eyes when you sing “This time you gave me a Mountain” and I see your hands. When I close my eyes, Dad I see the hands of a musician, but more so, of a father. Soft, loving, and always ready to hold me when I need you.
We’re not overly verbal about our love are we Daddy? Sure, we say “I love you” and “be careful” and all those loving things, but the deep stuff we don’t really discuss. But, you know what, Dad? I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we do. I think we always have. Just not in the same way as others. I think your love for me is in your lyrics. You have spent a lifetime comforting me with hugs of harmonies, kisses in keys and chords, and songs of sweetness. You and I have always talked Daddy. And I want you to know, Dad, that I’ve heard every word.
You’ve told me I will always be your baby girl every time you sing “Daddy’s Little Girl.” You’ve explained the hurt over losing Mom every time your sweet voice sings “This Time You Gave Me a Mountain.” You’ve showed me how much fun you are and I should always be when you change the words to songs (“The Keys Are in the Shithouse comes to mind!). You’ve shown me you believe in me by allowing me to help you write a song. Every strum of your guitar, every beautiful note on the steel pedal guitar, every word was heard Daddy. And I hope you’ve heard mine. I love you.
My dad is my idol. My dad is my hero. My dad has loved me unconditionally for 45 years and now I want him to understand what that means to me.
I’ve always thought it incredible that we share a birthday, Dad. So much inside of you is reflected inside of me. Your compassion for people--we always tend to worry about others over ourselves. Your sense of humor—the absolute best. Your pride and stubbornness—that of a Taurus. And your never-ending love for music.
When I stop to write this and close my eyes, the memories of you seem so real and as if they only happened yesterday. I still picture you young, blonde-haired, mischievous blue eyes, with that incredible laugh. You live in my mind as a 25 year old behind Grandpa Lew’s guitar. I like you there. I know you are home behind that guitar. I see the way you sit, the way you close your eyes when you sing “This time you gave me a Mountain” and I see your hands. When I close my eyes, Dad I see the hands of a musician, but more so, of a father. Soft, loving, and always ready to hold me when I need you.
We’re not overly verbal about our love are we Daddy? Sure, we say “I love you” and “be careful” and all those loving things, but the deep stuff we don’t really discuss. But, you know what, Dad? I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we do. I think we always have. Just not in the same way as others. I think your love for me is in your lyrics. You have spent a lifetime comforting me with hugs of harmonies, kisses in keys and chords, and songs of sweetness. You and I have always talked Daddy. And I want you to know, Dad, that I’ve heard every word.
You’ve told me I will always be your baby girl every time you sing “Daddy’s Little Girl.” You’ve explained the hurt over losing Mom every time your sweet voice sings “This Time You Gave Me a Mountain.” You’ve showed me how much fun you are and I should always be when you change the words to songs (“The Keys Are in the Shithouse comes to mind!). You’ve shown me you believe in me by allowing me to help you write a song. Every strum of your guitar, every beautiful note on the steel pedal guitar, every word was heard Daddy. And I hope you’ve heard mine. I love you.
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