Who We Were
Sarahs Bunting past.
I was 28, no greys. I had two cats, one grey. I lived, for a moment, in a loft in Toronto I was subletting from a college friend. The cats have gone. They are also here, in simple cedar boxes that contain the gravel of their bones, because when the time came, I couldn’t bring nothing home. The Little Joe box sits on my desk, near whatever I’m having to drink, because that’s where he’d be, fixing to knock it over. But he’s gone.
The college friend has gone too. A seizure when he was alone; a sharp corner whose danger wasn’t known; a grand procession to the cemetery. I was proud of that, for him. It was something — the kind of something that’s almost nothing, but something nonetheless. Something to keep him here, and every time I see a Molson tap in a pub, here he is again, clanking off the Airporter with a straining duffel for the American minors.
I was on Paxil. Lord, I hope that one’s gone; it didn’t do what it needed to, just shrank down what I felt to a hallway, mild and medium. The sobbing I did eighteen years ago today I had not done for several seasons prior. Church giggles were like a story I’d read. One thing penetrated the white-noisy middleness, the worst possible thing.
What the Paxil tried to treat is still here. I have anxiety disorder. I always have had it. It changes, that beast, it evolves: hammering visible heartbeats, waves of despair, compulsions about foods and routes and lucky broken tchotchkes taken around everywhere, agoraphobia. Terror, and the war on it, every day retaking the same ground. The enemy never tires. At last, and by accident, I found the right meds, and the spirals still happen, but now they have an end. But they wait here for me.
I used to come to Tomato Nation every day. I approved comments and made updates. I gave advice, and I wish I hadn’t given some of it. Today, a year’s gone by. In the lead graphic, my grandfather’s eyes still regard us. I miss those days sometimes, three or four apartments ago, different desks and coffee, the wind in different trees, dropping a different bag on the ground all “How was the day?” But on Tomato Nation, those days can still be now, even though they’re gone. We can still be here together, not the same way, just the same way, with our old selves.
Isn’t that the anguishing gift of life — that what’s gone can yet remain? Hilly, my uncle, Dr. Ellen’s t-shirt-cannon strings of emojis leaving her ghost signature on my Instagram, my aunt who married us…my grandma who I watched Charles and Diana get married with by phone back when that could cost a fortune (and did; sorry again, Dad), whose pen cup I’m looking at, whose gaudiest costume ring I have on today, who taught me geranium husbandry and old songs and what “favorite” could mean. What a big space to leave and still be everywhere.
People use that Faulkner line about the past sometimes like it’s a bad thing, like we can’t escape, and sometimes that’s the truth of it. Other times, it’s nice to leave a space beside me for what’s gone, for who I was and who was with me then.
And for a slice of cake with confetti frosting. Happy birthday, Don.
Tags: September 11th
Glad to be here with you today, Sarah. Tomato Nation forever.
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy birthday Don
I remembered to check in yesterday, and I’m glad I checked in again today. I miss the old tomato nation, but all the same, I’m glad we’re all mostly still here – through all the change. Happy birthday, Don.
Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sarah.
Thanks Sars & happy bday Don.
Your best yet. Thank you for creating this space Sarah. Even though we’ve never met, I’ll always be here this day (with all of you). Happy Birthday, Don.
I came here today hoping to hear from you. So glad we can all still gather together in this space. Thank you, Sars.
Happy Birthday, Don.
@mynbe thank you. It’s good to be here with you all, as always.
Oh Sarah, thank you for writing. This really hit home. Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sars.
I came here today, of all days, to be with this Nation. Every time I read and reread your words about today I am comforted. Even with the anxiety and heartbreak and sadness that permeates this day, that small connection you had with Don gives me hope that we humans aren’t complete asses.
Thank you.
[…] always posts on this day (or the day after). There are twenty of them now. Will there be twenty more? I don’t know. I […]
I miss your writing. Sending love.
Happy birthday, Don.
It has been a long time since I visited here but I still check in from time to time, and I would never miss today. Thank you, Sarah – and happy birthday, Don.
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit. Happy birthday, Don, and thank you, Sars.
Always here on this day. This piece is one of my favorites. So much gone, and so much still there. Happy Birthday Don.
Happy birthday, Don.
Been reading you since TWoP. Time is a funny old thing. It’s good to “see” you today, Sars.
As always, I celebrate this day by reading your words about it. Thank you, both for coming back every year for us, and for your original words, which are one of the most profound things I’ve ever read.
Thank you. Happy Birthday Don.
Thank you, Sarah. Happy birthday, Don.
Eighteen years seems hard to believe. Happy birthday, Don.
Happy Birthday Don, and thank you Sarah.
Beautiful, Sars. Thank you for letting us all come here every year to wish Don a happy birthday.
My quiet time on 9/11 is sitting at my desk in the 9:00 hour, firing up my laptop, taking a deep breath, and logging into Tomato Nation.
Times change, people change.
But specific spaces in our souls do not change.
We may no longer all hang out here because times change, people change.
We may hang out with you at your other more recent locations – Extra Hot Great, The Blotter Presents, MASTAS, etc.
But this place on this date helps protect those specific spaces in our souls.
Thank you for this, Sars.
Happy Birthday, Don.
I think of people born after that day, who will come to age this year (in my country). People born into that world, who are almost adults now. I remember my then relationship crumbling as the towers crumbled and how I hated – still hate – the mix of personal anguish mixed in with the fear and sorrow that we felt for you, even though we were watching almost from the other side of the earth.
I miss this space, but it’s good to know that you still check in at least once a year, as life takes you other places. Thank you so much.
Thank you. Happy birthday, Don.
I return here every year to read your original and new thoughts on this day. Nailed it again, Sars. Be well, and thanks as always for sharing. Happy Birthday, Don.
This year and every year, I stop in to pay my respects and say hello. And get a little weepy over Scents Memory. Thanks for being here, Sars.
Happy Birthday, Don.
Every year, I come back here. Thank you, Sars. Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sarah, this and every year.
Happy birthday, Don.
Today. Always on this day. Happy birthday Don.
I often forget how much I miss your words, Sars. Stay well, and happy birthday, Don.
Thank you for being here with us today, Sarah.
Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sarah.
Happy birthday, Don.
You were 28 and I was 22. I found Tomato Nation through TWoP when I was in college and have always loved your writing. I haven’t been here in a long time but thought of you today. This was beautiful Sarah, thank you. Happy Birthday Don.
Thank you for keeping this space for us. The ritual of returning, hearing your voice, brings great comfort.
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy Birthday, Don.
…And I grow more convinced, each passing year, that you were, in fact, an angel. But Happy Birthday, anyway.
Thanks for the kind words, everyone. …I keep thinking the world will bend back around to blogs, so this isn’t going anywhere. :)
I think of you (and Don) every year on this day. I’m glad you still write.
I was thinking about you this morning, wondering if you’d be here today, after so long away. I should have known you never really left.
As ever, thank you for your writing on this. I read them all each year on this day.
Happy birthday, Don.
Hugs to Wing and Glark and you, and to those we loved and lost that day. Happy Birthday, Don.
Hugs!
Stop by whenever you can. We look for the light.
I always find comfort here on this day, thank you for writing this. Happy birthday, Don.
“Thank you” doesn’t quite convey what I want to say, but I guess it will have to do. “Love” comes closer. Happy Birthday, Don.
Thanks for checking in.
Happy birthday, Don, wherever you are.
This place is like my eternal flame. Always there and comforting to come back to. Remembering the first time I cried about a cat I had never pet, nice to hear he’s still around creating possible drink havoc. I’ve been knocking around TN for 20 years I think? So now it’s one of my oldest friendships.
Every year on this day TN is the only place I cry, there’s just something about the remembered panic of trying to locate all of my people and the jolt of relief when I knew that everyone was safe and the devastation for those who didn’t get that privilege. This was the place for all of us to gather and go through it.
Thanks for keeping the lights on Sars. Remember these? (((hugs))) – kids ask your parents
And happy birthday Don from all of us.
Thank you so much for this. Happy birthday, Don.
Thanks, Sars, and happy birthday, Don. This site is the only place I want to be on this date.
(For what it’s worth, you gave me some really good advice on the Vine back in the day and I took it and it worked out well. So thanks for that, too.)
Happy birthday, Don.
@Clover I’m so glad. And look, we’ll always have Jack. hee.