Street performers, ballerinas, a clown on a unicycle, a barber shop quartet, balloon vendors, a hot dog stand, a mime, and tap dancers.
A full-on Busker Festival.
And everyone was invited to leave their gifts, wrapped in bright colors and frilly ribbons, in the Gift Room to the left.
It was one big celebration.
I revolted. A complete temper tantrum, toddler style, worthy of an Oscar. I kicked and writhed on the floor, pounding my fists. "Stop making me celebrate! Stop! Stop making me celebrate!"
Where did this dream come from? What is my brain trying to say, other than I'd rather not have another funeral for Robb, and I don't want to invite all of Barnum & Bailey?
It is this: I cannot celebrate. Anything. I've tried. I wish I could. I miss the joy.
Birthday parties, anniversaries, milestones, anything loud and excessive, really anything bigger than a cupcake. Others are welcome to; please, feel free, celebrate. Thank you for inviting me, but I have to decline.
Celebration is too big a guest; she allows no room for me. So I have to step aside, slip out the door.
If I stay, I might revolt. And that could ruin the party for everyone.
"Wearing mourning in the old days was not such a bad idea,
because it took into visible account the fact of death,
which we now try to hide, so that it won't embarrass others."
~ Madeleine L'Engle,