The Wormlips Scrapbook

Shirley asked me to write a note to Christopher. I did, and slid it into the sock that I gave Shirley. She put them atop his diminutive white casket at the funeral.

Dear Christopher,

I tried to make you a pair of socks but they came out funky. Here’s one of them. I threw out the other.

You wouldn’t believe how sad I am not to have met you. Like everyone else, I had plans for you. For one thing, I was going to teach you stuff your parents wouldn’t approve of. Like behind Scott’s back I would have showed you an Irish dance step or two. And when Shirley wasn’t looking, I’d introduce you to hippie girls in Berkeley.

I’m heartbroken most of all for your parents. Their little Christopher Henry (that’s you) will always be with them in spirit and memory. By the way, do you know much about your parents? They’re just the best people. They’re both smart, funny, generous to a fault, and the most loyal friends a person could have. Shirley is prettier than Scott, but Scott is better at riding dirt bikes.

Well, I’d better stop yammering. Mostly I wanted to tell you that you are in the hearts of more people than you can imagine. We’ll never forget you.

I’ll do my best to be a good friend to your parents and to help them out when I can. Meanwhile, if you happen to see Dad or Grannie, would you please send them my love?

Yours forever,
Auntie Ginna

Bookmark this post to...

This is in memory of Christopher Henry Owens, Shirley’s and Scott’s baby who died last Friday, a month before his due date. He was born the following day: 18 inches tall, 4 pounds, 6 ounces, reddish-brown hair. They took pictures, which I’ll see this weekend. At the hospital they got to hold him whenever they wanted.

Last month I knitted him a little green sailor sweater and started on matching socks. The socks should’ve been easy. The first one was recalcitrant but ultimately I got the better of it. The second, however, dug in its little heel, and flat-out refused to get made. Oddly, it turned out that all this knitting up and tearing out was simultaneous with the last moments of Christopher’s life. I threw out the unfinished, unfinishable sock and gave the other to Shirley.

Bookmark this post to...

Excerpts of letters from the Katie archive.

May 17, 1999

She was a good pig
a sweet pig
a gentle pig
but squeaked alot.

Oh no. Wrong species. It was Ginna the HUMAN who died of itsy bitsy brain injuries, warn’t it?

Last night in her Albany home, Ginna “Beanhead” Allison died with of itsy bitsy brain injuries sustained when she had earlier attacked a stud wall, thinking it was, in fact, a stud. She was known for her peaceful demeanor whilst driving amongst drivers not as competent as herself. She was the founder of The Golden Joy Club, a Wilmington philanthropic institution. Her sister, Kate the Magnificent (also known as The Pale Beauty), was quoted as saying, “She’s ruined our year, you know, but we’ll get over it.” Ginna helped sustain the Miss Saylors organization, which was linked to a Colombian cartel. President Clinton’s only comment regarding this supposed tragedy was, “Good riddance.” The SPCA described Ms. Allison as a “Chinchilla Hater” who also would torture her poor dog “Otis” by dressing him in ridiculous outfits for her own amusement. Their only comment upon hearing the news was, “Today is a day of rejoicing for all animals.” Rats were heard to laugh in labs across this country. “Her grandfather always liked her,” said her mother, “but he’s been dead for many years now.”

Even though all these elements may paint a somewhat dismal picture, she was also known as being kinda funny and sweet.

May 26, 1999

There is a dead possum outside. It was hit by a car and crawled up to the house to die. Tragicsville. Sam [the golden retriever] will undoubtedly take possession of the body, as soon as he locates it. Would YOU like a dead possum?

I won’t die unless my life ends. Then you can come with me, if you like. The company would be nice, but don’t feel pressured.

June 6, 1999

I sat on Granny and Granddad’s collective graves today. I left my pocket tool thingie there in case they needed to open a bottle of wine, or whittle, or something. Two guys sat about 15 feet away from me the whole time and watched me like I was gonna shoplift. What could I shoplift, I must ask?

I’m going to get a glass of vino. I hear tell alcohol preserves brain cells. You must be very bright.

Bookmark this post to...