Showing posts with label grandma tyner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandma tyner. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
YIKESWORRIESYIKES
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to:
Hey Grandma Tyner,
I don’t know if you know this story: The Friday before died, I was staying with you while mom was teaching summer school, and you went to the bathroom. I got this feeling, like something bad was happening, so I called mom at school, hysterical. I can’t quite remember how that situation ended. Probably you came out as I was hanging up, and seeing I was upset, we made stoplight cookies and ate homemade applesauce. But when you died that weekend, in that same bathroom, I knew I was right.
Ever sense, a slight uneasy feeling can send me into panic mode, like who’s dying or leaving or hating me? It drove mom and dad crazy, like every three minutes me being “I love you, are you mad at me?” I’m not blaming you for my paranoia or my franticness or my dive-into-peopleness. I’m just catching you up.
You’ve been gone like almost a third of my life. Wherever you are, I hope you don’t have full grandma access to my thoughts or Tyler TV or something. I do silly things sometimes, not like in the haha way, but in the holy-crap-I-hope-grandma-can’t-see-me-right-now kind of way. I thought there’d be a time when I stopped worrying about this, stopped fretting that you were gone, stopped wondering about the person I’d be if you were still here.
Part of me thinks I’d be more like Matt, more content with a traditional life, his forthcoming marriage, the fancy job/cell phone/car, the gut. He still has a grandma to spoil him and help him and love him. But maybe I’m wrong here, maybe I’d have found this person I am now earlier, not changing styles/friends/subcultures yearly.
I wonder a lot if you would like my poems or Sara or my apartment or my English major or my facial hair or m sense of humor.
In my old bedroom, mom has hung that picture of you that one lady drew after you died, the one that hung in my elementary school until a few years ago. It’s a nice picture, the image of you I recall actually (shamefully?) when I think of you. It was a strange comfort looking at that in the hallway for the few years I was there after you died and all the times, visiting mom, that I’d see it in the following years. Now, it’s in the room where I perfected my art of worry, of wondering, of tricking myself into thinking I had special powers. That is an interesting development.
I think you’d think I was pretty neat, and not because I’m super sweet or cool, but because I’m trying, and I know you always appreciated that.
I miss you and I love you,
Tyler
Hey Grandma Tyner,
I don’t know if you know this story: The Friday before died, I was staying with you while mom was teaching summer school, and you went to the bathroom. I got this feeling, like something bad was happening, so I called mom at school, hysterical. I can’t quite remember how that situation ended. Probably you came out as I was hanging up, and seeing I was upset, we made stoplight cookies and ate homemade applesauce. But when you died that weekend, in that same bathroom, I knew I was right.
Ever sense, a slight uneasy feeling can send me into panic mode, like who’s dying or leaving or hating me? It drove mom and dad crazy, like every three minutes me being “I love you, are you mad at me?” I’m not blaming you for my paranoia or my franticness or my dive-into-peopleness. I’m just catching you up.
You’ve been gone like almost a third of my life. Wherever you are, I hope you don’t have full grandma access to my thoughts or Tyler TV or something. I do silly things sometimes, not like in the haha way, but in the holy-crap-I-hope-grandma-can’t-see-me-right-now kind of way. I thought there’d be a time when I stopped worrying about this, stopped fretting that you were gone, stopped wondering about the person I’d be if you were still here.
Part of me thinks I’d be more like Matt, more content with a traditional life, his forthcoming marriage, the fancy job/cell phone/car, the gut. He still has a grandma to spoil him and help him and love him. But maybe I’m wrong here, maybe I’d have found this person I am now earlier, not changing styles/friends/subcultures yearly.
I wonder a lot if you would like my poems or Sara or my apartment or my English major or my facial hair or m sense of humor.
In my old bedroom, mom has hung that picture of you that one lady drew after you died, the one that hung in my elementary school until a few years ago. It’s a nice picture, the image of you I recall actually (shamefully?) when I think of you. It was a strange comfort looking at that in the hallway for the few years I was there after you died and all the times, visiting mom, that I’d see it in the following years. Now, it’s in the room where I perfected my art of worry, of wondering, of tricking myself into thinking I had special powers. That is an interesting development.
I think you’d think I was pretty neat, and not because I’m super sweet or cool, but because I’m trying, and I know you always appreciated that.
I miss you and I love you,
Tyler
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
OOOOWOW HOW I USED TO LOVE YOU
Day 2 - Your Crush
Sup Crush,
I loved you as a kid, your orangey goodness hanging out on my top lip. That used to always make my grandma laugh, her grandson wearing his love on his face. I would drink like three or four cans of you a day and no one said anything because I was their lovable little boy and they wanted what was best for me: happiness.
But oh, the damage you can cause. Like you might have been the catalyst for my weight age circa 9th grade, which led to my insecurities which led to my quitting sports which led to my lazy girlfriend which led to my anger issues. Oh and how could I forget age six outside of Uncle Ricky's garage, yapping about knives or Rambo or pro wrestling, my blazing sugar 'stache in tow, and that wasp wanted a drink and stung me on my lip. DAG THAT HURT.
But that day, Crush, I realized the damage I could cause, smacking that wasp, with the bottom of your can nonetheless. Then, my last swig gone, I crushed you, with my six-year old feet, flat, on Ricky's gravel drive, tossing you with your smashed brothers in a dirty trashcan.
Yes, I realized I am better than you. I am uncrushable. But you, that's your name, Crush, and my name is Tyler so booyeah. No more orange drink for me, no more wasp stings, no more belly fat. Now, I wear my love on my hands or the trills of my voice or my blog. No, I don't love you anymore.
Goodbye,
Tyler
Sup Crush,
I loved you as a kid, your orangey goodness hanging out on my top lip. That used to always make my grandma laugh, her grandson wearing his love on his face. I would drink like three or four cans of you a day and no one said anything because I was their lovable little boy and they wanted what was best for me: happiness.
But oh, the damage you can cause. Like you might have been the catalyst for my weight age circa 9th grade, which led to my insecurities which led to my quitting sports which led to my lazy girlfriend which led to my anger issues. Oh and how could I forget age six outside of Uncle Ricky's garage, yapping about knives or Rambo or pro wrestling, my blazing sugar 'stache in tow, and that wasp wanted a drink and stung me on my lip. DAG THAT HURT.
But that day, Crush, I realized the damage I could cause, smacking that wasp, with the bottom of your can nonetheless. Then, my last swig gone, I crushed you, with my six-year old feet, flat, on Ricky's gravel drive, tossing you with your smashed brothers in a dirty trashcan.
Yes, I realized I am better than you. I am uncrushable. But you, that's your name, Crush, and my name is Tyler so booyeah. No more orange drink for me, no more wasp stings, no more belly fat. Now, I wear my love on my hands or the trills of my voice or my blog. No, I don't love you anymore.
Goodbye,
Tyler
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
