Crushcrushcrush, and not on Paramore.

A feeling of urgency overcomes me this morning.

My mom is getting sicker, my dad is slowly, over time right before my eyes, deteriorating. I’ve been surrounded by death for a month now, it seems; my friend’s ex’s mother died just this weekend, and the Alaskan crab fishermen had a loss just recently too: Captain Phil Harris of the Cornelia Marie has died of a massiveĀ stroke.

According to the ship’s Web site, Harris started working on fishing boats at age 7 and started work 10 years later on a crab boat. When Harris turned 21, he ran a fishing vessel out of Seattle, making him one of the youngest to captain a vessel in the Bering Sea. He was 53.

News like this makes me want to go write 500 poems and reach out to my community; to get a boyfriend, fall in love and get married all in the very little time I have left. I could live to be 120, and it still wouldn’t be enough for me. I want to experience all the good things in life there are, and yes, maybe even kids someday. I have been struggling for years with the concept of love, and by my own definition (the true one, not the falsely advertised) I think it could work for me, given the right person.

This news makes me anxious to be remembered — as Captain Harris will be forever through television and the love of his family and friends — but I don’t know anything I do that’s exceptional enough to be remembered for more than a couple years after my death. Death, phew, there’s a thought. Not being here anymore? Not existing. It makes me shiver down deep to my bones, and not in a good way.

There is a sleeting, cold, icy storm blowing outside my classroom, and here at school we’re all suffering from cold chill and bad hair.


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