He was my boy.

I’m back.

I needed a minute.

It’s during really hard times that I journal. It I think that’s unfortunate. The good stuff is worthy of journalling, but it’s mostly when my heart is aching and full of doubt that I find myself needing a creative outlet. And so, here we are again.

That’s all I’ve used this blog for anyway … a timestamped on-line journal without the moving boxes full of time-stained pages and grammar mistakes. It’s the being public vs. private concept that still perplexes me. How is this any different from writing a song? Alanis Morisette, Adele, Melissa Etheridge, Taylor Swift – all examples of women who have been forthcoming about grief, pain and loss and put it all out there without regard for, “what will people think?”

A way to practice that pen on paper “creative outlet”. Blogging gives me a reason to formulate actual thoughts with actual words, rather than my old fashioned technique of grinding ink into bold letters on of 100 pages of a drugstore 1-Subject spiral-notebook, accented with bold arrows and exciting exclamation points anytime an “ah ha” moment emerged… er, any time I made a meaningful discovery or connection in my entry.. Someone out there might READ this … and so, I try to make it coherent, at the very least. Whether or not I’m being reasonable at any given time may be up for debate, but for NOW, I will archive my older MazieCakes entries. I am turning a new page…

The unfortunate catalyst for this entry and change of motivation is… I lost my sweet boy, Malachi, yesterday morning. My boy. My main man. My Señor, my good boy, the dude, my Malachi passed away in my arms at about 7:10am on Thursday, June 28.

I suppose, looking back, he hadn’t been quite right the whole month of May. I noticed his appetite was off upon my return from a trip to Boston in late May. (My sister got her Master’s, y’all!) I performed my usual hospice foster techniques, with the knowledge that he’d been an old man for a long time. My purpose was to offer him comfort, and so did’t hesitate to cook up fresh chicken or even mini-steaks when the time seemed right. I offered different brands, flavors, and consistencies lined up in shallow dishes (because he had an overbite) for his approval. I gave him fluids when he seemed sticky, I carried him down the hall and out to the courtyard to go potty, I forced him to eat a rice slurry I whipped up in the mini food processor so he’d have something on his tummy for his meds, and my boy, my boy accepted his bland syringe-fuls trustingly, and then, he even let me clean his face, afterward.

Long story short, my boy had cancer, pancreas/liver variety, we only had a little more time together.