crucifix gleamed round your
neck spoke without words of
pain wounds that couldn’t be
you knew what it felt like to be
lanced cut hurt you smiled and
suffered that couldn’t be
stitched together you were an
exploding fast ball let loose to
test life’s velocity until you were
crucifix gleams round my
neck speaks without words of
pain memories that can’t be
Pamela A. Rossow
Mr. E.F. Duncan, Owner Duncan’s Toy Chest: Well, two Turtle Doves. I’ll tell you what you do: you keep one, and you give the other one to a very special person. You see, Turtle Doves are a symbol of friendship and love. And as long as each of you has your Turtle Dove, you’ll be friends forever.
Kevin McCallister: Wow. I never knew that. I thought they were just part of a song.
Mr. E.F. Duncan, Owner Duncan’s Toy Chest: They are. And for that very special reason.
(Quote from Home Alone 2)
It is with great sadness that I write this afternoon. A special man and friend of my dad, Dave Rossow, was tragically killed today. His name was John Wilson. He was a wonderful man, father, husband, firefighter, chef, and friend. The entire Boca Raton Fire Department family grieves and we extend our condolences to John’s wife and sons. Readers, please be reminded when hearing about such sad news, to appreciate who is in your life at this moment. We never know when an ordinary day can turn extra-ordinary for all of the wrong reasons. Our time on this planet is finite. When we have people, like “John Wilsons” in our lives, we need to appreciate them and let them know how much we love them. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. If we are cognizant of this reality, although some people might find it morbid, it may help us to live with love and forgiveness. RIP John. You were and are loved. God bless you.
This picture was taken at my dad, Dave Rossow’s, retirement party.
I’m supposed to be resting. Of course, being on a computer isn’t really resting. And writing isn’t resting. I never said I was a compliant patient. However, I am in bed (that must count for something). With my laptop. Writing. “Stunada” as my Nonnie would have said. Not in the “out there” sense but in the stubborn, sorta stupid sense (sorry Nonnie). I was recently talking to a good friend late one night. We’ve both been on this crazy rollercoaster called “Life.” We’ve had similar experiences, felt the same at times, and, at other moments, diverged. Our relationship, though, no matter what we are thinking, feeling, or hoping, remains granite solid. I mentioned a song (by The Fray) on my daughter’s iPod (yes, I borrowed it for a few minutes while outside getting a little vitamin D). This song asks a lot of questions (yeah, yeah, I know, I can relate), is kinda dark, and, although I’ve heard it at least thirty times, it was the first time I really listened to the words. I asked my friend if she heard it before (nearly everyone has) and if she knew what the lyrics meant. I couldn’t identify exactly what touched me about it but I felt it draw me in, put a warm blanket around my shoulders, and nestle a steaming cup of tea in my hands. I didn’t feel alone. I felt . . . comforted. Music, as an art form, has that capability (one of the reasons I appreciate it so much). My friend sent me an email with a link to the lyrics as explained by the lead singer and pianist. I didn’t care that the song was so popular it made it onto various countries’ billboard charts or what TV show used clips of it (even though it’s all true). It spoke to me where I was (where I am). In a place I’ve never been before. Where, depending on the day, I question God’s existence. Many before me have been here, many are here now, and many more will visit in the future. I’m not sure of what my future holds. It’s okay. Even in this space, I’m banking that He hasn’t abandoned me. That He still loves me perfectly (like no other can). That His silence is because, when He does speak again, I will not question that it’s Him. I will be certain.