Somehow the subject of funereal celebrations came up at work, and we determined the following:
It is a pity that I will not be having a coffin when I die, because how awesome would it be to serve Jell-O shots off it at my service? Or, optionally, beer pong.
Now I kind of want a casket.
Is that wrong?
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
–Traditional verseI saw a girl from a lonely street
Cold as ice cream but still as sweet
Dry your eyes, Sunday Girl
–Blondie/Sunday Girl
I was born on a Sunday a long time ago. According to the old poem, that makes me bonny and blithe. When I was a little girl, I think that was very true. I was a cute little girl with a cheerful disposition. Cheerfully prone to stubbornness, if I’m completely honest. I may have been cheerful, but I was born with a firm conviction of my own intelligence. I was pretty sure I was always right about everything.
When I was 4 or 5, I remember the extended family going on a trip to Diamond Lake. We were staying in a cabin, and I would skip around all day, usually singing. My grandmother pointed out two things to my mother:
1. I had a very true singing voice for such a little girl.
2. It was very inappropriate for me to be singing songs from the musical “Hair” at my age. (I really liked the song “Ain’t Got No” at the time. Especially the part that went “ain’t got no underwear.”)
It is unfortunate that I don’t remember how my mother replied to the implied criticism about her letting me listen to “Hair.” We also had the soundtrack to “Mary Poppins” which I liked nearly as well, and “Hard Days Night” by the Beatles. Sonny and Cher. I sang along to all of it. I’m sure my mother bit her tongue and refrained from telling my grandmother her thoughts on the subject. Ma has always been diplomatic when required.
I remember being a very happy child. Smiling. Laughing. Singing. Reading. My one big disappointment was when they wouldn’t let me start first grade when I was 5. The cutoff to start first grade was to turn 6 by November 15, and my birthday is on the 17th. I cried all the way home, and could not understand why they didn’t want me. I don’t think I really understood the idea of a deadline, all I knew is that I already knew how to read, and I belonged in school. I had been looking forward to going to school for as long as I could remember. School was where I was going to really start learning things. I just knew it.
As it happens, I was pretty wrong about that.
Still, I was probably skipping and singing again before long. I still had books to read, and pictures to draw. Horses to pet. Chickens to feed. A little brother to tease. Things to be right about.
Finally, when I got to go to school, it was a little disappointing. The teachers quickly figured out that I didn’t need them, and focused their attention on the kids that didn’t already know how to read.
I was still fairly bonny, but got less and less blithe as time went on.
Eventually the smile did come back again.
Now I’m a little less bonny.
I guess you don’t get to be both as an adult over 50.
Ach, well. I’ll take blithe over bonny any time. Especially since it’s not like I’m nae bonny at all. I’m still moderately bonny.
Is that a thing?
Still bonny and blithe at age 5-ish
Mara thought she was overdue for a really good sulk.
An epic sulk. Maybe with some additional foot stomping, or would that make it a tantrum?
Hmm. Maybe what she was really in the mood for was a tantrum.
There really wasn’t anyone around to inflict the tantrum on though. It’s not very satisfying to stomp around unheard, and shouting is definitely wasted without an audience. A good quiet sulk though. You can enjoy a good sulk on your own, even if it IS better with a victim. Maybe someone would drop by later that she could sulk with.
It’s not like she could really complain to anyone about her problems. For one thing, her Destroyer had forbidden her to mention him to anyone. Since he seemed to be able to read her mind when he was nearby, and since she never knew when he was, she thought perhaps it was best not to tempt Samael to destroy her. That was one of the problems: the threat of imminent destruction is a real bummer in a relationship. Talk about your power inequities. Fucker. Then again, who would she tell about him, and what could she say that didn’t make her friends think she was insane? The whole story was completely unbelievable. Mara wasn’t quite sure she believed it herself. There’s nothing like questioning your own sanity to ruin the Summer.
There is just no way to tell your best friend that you’re fucking an angel that ends with her believing what you’re saying.
To make things even worse, he’d disappeared for nearly two weeks. She was almost sure that the disappearance confirmed that she’d been dreaming him the whole time. If she was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t really sure if she was angrier that he’d disappeared or that he could destroy her without half trying. She was also more than a little sad about the possibility that he wasn’t real. If she was even more honest with herself, she had to admit how much she missed him physically. Her mind might have reservations about Samael, but her body knew exactly what it wanted. And it wanted a 20 foot tall destroying angel who could destroy her at the slightest provocation.
“That,” she mumbled, “is messed up.”
And she stomped her foot, just to see if it made her feel better.
It didn’t.
She got a bottle of IPA out of the fridge, and went out onto the front porch to settle in for her sulk. She brought a book out with her so she could pretend to read while she was sulking. Tradition. She took a swig from the bottle and sighed. Sighing is the signal that the sulk has officially begun.
A shadow took form on the porch steps.
“Why do you continue to overstate my size, my treasure? I am only 7 feet tall, and all 7 feet of me are very excited to be here with you again.”
This was going to put a damper on her plans to sulk. Angels, she was learning, do not have a high tolerance for sulking.
She patted the spot next to her on the porch swing and held up her beer in case Samael was thirsty. He shook his head, sat down and wrapped himself around her with a very contented sort of growl. She rubbed her face against his chest, and saw the burn. Or was it a cut? She looked up at him, he shook his head so she wouldn’t ask and caressed her hair with a sad, far away look.
What, she wondered, could do that to a Destroyer?
Samael hoped she would never find out. If she did, he hoped he could protect her from them. He hoped that she wouldn’t make it harder for him to do what he needed to do. It was going to be difficult even without concerning himself about the welfare of a human creature. This one was special to him. More than he could ever let her know.
He scooped her up and carried her in the house, breathing in her scent. First, he would have to put a stop to this sulking.
He thought he knew something that would work. If it didn’t, he could always bite her. Just a little. She would like that.
She was already smiling.
