Better after Death, or, Requiem for a Necrophiliac

Amazingly, I'm back home in Ohio. It's been nearly a year since I've visited the Buckeye State, and things are the same as always, only less so.

My dad no longer lives in my house (sic semper tyrannis). My mom has redecorated (it looks nice--very pre-slammer Martha), there are a few more unnecessary housing developments on the way to my neighborhood (itself an unnecessary housing development, but who's counting?), and my cat is FUCKING FAT. I swear, my mom's feeding him enough to make kitty fois gras. Fortunately, more kitty means more soft snuggly belly, so I'm not complaining.

An additional development is that, due to the current trend among my mother's friends to ditch their sorry-ass husbands, my mom's friend Lynna is living in our spare bedroom. This is awesome, because 1. Lynna is funny, and 2. her son, Reid, is also sleeping here sporadically, and I think my sister might have some sort of sexual tension with him. (This is entirely speculation and/or wishful thinking--sister + boy in basement = Thanksgiving fireworks! And you thought explosives were only for July 4.)

In other news, I'm feeling fairly intimidated by my bookshelf. Not only do I forget half the things I read in high school, but I picked up Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese and flipped to her most famous sonnet. For those who skipped English lit, old Lizzie was an "invalid" who was saved from spinsterhood by the poet Robert Browning and spirited away after the furious writing of love letters. Here it is:


XLIII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! --and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


Now, how intimidating is THAT? "I shall but love thee better after death"? I can barely get someone to love me post-coitally, much less post-mortem. Maybe if I were a lovely invalid, locked away by her cruel father...but do we even have invalids anymore, or did we get rid of them along with "consumption" and the tophat? I should stop reading poetry and start working on not doing sit-ups, so I can fit more turkey come Thursday. Ah, here comes my lard-ass cat. Play time.