Grief stricken, I sit here through blurred and puffy lenses trying to understand what I am feeling. Rage might be a word I would use, but it is not so righteous. It might be deep sadness, empathetic vibrations emanating for all those women sitting on the edges of their lives not knowing where to go. We are still so hated. 

My daughter texts, did you see the news? I had taken a week off from the doom scroll to rest my weary mirror neurons. But I had. I had seen it and I was crying. It was coming from some childhood well of sadness I cannot pinpoint. I am hurting. I am hurting for every woman who is now scared and fully cognizant, she does not matter. It’s unconstitutional. 

I am hurting for my daughter who is fuming. For my daughter who has to walk out in the world feeling like we are going backwards. I said to her today, I think it is a circle and we are now on the dark side of it. How much more hate till we rebel and move the circle back to light? I can feel stuck on this dark side of the moon. Where women start to retreat and realize that maybe we are not allowed to rise. I have been hiding in my woods staring at the stars trying to pretend.

There is a rebel arriving. My mothers fought this fight before me and it is time that we will have to fight it again. My daughter texts, “I have and always will be on board with that. Now more than ever.” I love this person, this new woman I have helped raise. It was because of a choice I was permitted to make many years ago that I have her and not another. It was from a choice over my own body that gave me this child. This beautiful girl who feels the same pain as I do. 

It is time to strike. It is time to make a list of demands. Not a sea of pussy hats and love anymore, but an agenda. One where women are in charge of their bodies. One where we recognize humanity over “god”. The god of greed, the god of old white men, the god of shame and judgment .FUCK THE FUCKING PATRIARCHY is my battle cry. I cannot just sit on the side and weep. There are too many tears already. Our faces are too stained. But I will hold my daughters hand, like my mother did mine and make some movement.

 Blair’s Eulogy

You died a long time ago now. You had just been resurrected in my facebook pond of the past. We were getting divorced. Both of us. It was going around at the time and you pinged me from the Ukraine. I wonder if you had not taken that bottle of pills if you would be huddled in some steel factory right now knowing you were the first punches in the next big fight. 

I was adding music to my library. Inspired by a new rush of feeling. This new guy, he brings up thoughts of you. And I stumbled on Van Morrison and paused.. The first real all day, sweaty sex partner in crime. We were such good friends. I was so young back then. 17? 18? Young to your 25, old man. But we would lie on your torture device of a pullout bed, smoking cigarettes, ashtray on my naked chest listening to Van Morrisson admitting that it was indeed the best album to fuck to. 

You had this comforting voice. So low and deep, the Scottish edges still there. So easy to laugh and take things in stride. I knew you were a drunk back then, we all were. It was our job. You were the smartest of all of them, Blair. Such an easy brain you had. Learning Russian fluently to read all those Dostoyevsky tomes. It took you to the wilds of the East and you never came back. Bringing with you your Scottish pride and punk rock super stardom. I miss you. I only realised that this morning. 

Somehow you faded. We all did as we dispersed, degrees in hand. You were always so kind. Even when you would come back, tail between legs apologizing for some drunken discretion. I never minded. The best break up as we sat in our haunt, you having again admitted to sleeping with someone you found repulsive and I said, “I just don’t think I can be with you anymore.”

I did not feel betrayed, I just never understood how you could want these women you hated and still want me. Maybe I thought I was one of them. That it made me less beautiful. You just nodded and said, “ I would do the same.” And we smiled and had a beer and seamlessly moved into friendship. 

That moment decades later when the little friend request poked me. We started chatting and you told me about your life. Your kids , your troubles, your band. You were the same, flirting like the first time. Impressed with me as you always were, making me feel smart. You sounded sad. I think whoever she was, she broke your heart and stole something. You almost came home. You would have lived down the street and your kids would have met mine. The what ifs that were not enough to pull you through. I wish they had been Blair, and I could show you my dog. Though I think it would be my ridiculous cat that would have pleased you the most. He’s kinda like you. 

I am sorry it was too heavy, but I understand. Just like back then. That draw to the dark places that you could not help. I don’t know why today is the day that I started to mourn. It’s grey outside and I have been feeling romantic again for the first time in almost as long as it was since I heard you had died. Maybe it’s that. My heart is back where it was when we first met as I mentioned you in passing during one of those expose yourself talks that you have when sliding into love. He looked genuinely sad when I said you had taken your life. 

So I wanted to just write you here. Let you know. I always love you, even in those scotch soaked moments where the Russian tragedy plays out. Goodbye my friend.