So I'm 24 now...

How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,
    Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
    My hasting days fly on with full career,
    But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
    That I to manhood am arrived so near,
    And inward ripeness doth much less appear
    That some more timely happy spirits indueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
    It shall be still in strictest measure even
    To that same lot however mean or high,
Toward which time leads me and the will of heaven.
    All is, if I have grace to use it so,
    As ever in my great taskmaster's eye.
~John Milton, Sonnet VII


Milton apparently also looked way younger than his age. I feel this poem is appropriate for today. It doesn't matter what age I am or what age I look like, I'm just going to keep doing what I gotta do.

Siempre, siempre, Abuelita, yo recuerdaré...

In my earliest memory I am walking through the rooms in the Eagle Rock house, which we moved out of when I was two. The rooms are dark, but sunlight spills across the polished wood floors. I pass my little brother who is lying or crawling on the floor and see my grandma stuffing an old pair of jeans and an old red plaid flannel shirt of my father's with crumpled-up newspaper. She explains she is making a scarecrow to decorate our front stoop for Halloween. Later it will scare me whenever I pass by it, even though I saw it being made.

One of the most interesting things about life is how quickly one becomes used to things. When my grandma lived with us, it was like she had always done so. When she was gone, either to visit my uncles or live in her house in Mexico, it was as though she had never been. I remember thinking in the past that her frequent absences might prepare us for when she would be gone.
The woman I came home one day to find up in our eight-foot fig tree (which was at the top of a thirty-foot hill) sawing off its branches by hand became a frail little slip of a person who had to be lifted out of bed, enormous brown eyes and bones showing through skin much paler than it used to be. The woman who cooked and baked delicious food for us could no longer keep anything down. This was not the end we wanted for her. It was not the end she deserved.

It's strange not having her here. I'll forget sometimes and think, "oh, I should tell her hello/about the job I got/etc.", then remember I can't. We just sort of assumed she'd always be here, that she'd take care of our kids the way she took care of us. I miss her. We knew this was coming, but it's still hard.

The Rivals and Further Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

I read two books that are collections of short mystery and detective stories, written and set around the same time as Sherlock Holmes. They ranged from the mediocre (there were some where the mystery was solved but the person got off free, or where the ending was just "...oh." I hate that) to the awesome (a blind detective BAMF is put in a hostage situation because the villains know he's the only one who can stop them. He cuts the electrical light's cord, plunging the room in darkness and putting them all on equal footing. He has the drop on them due to his enhanced hearing and threatens to shoot anyone who moves. They all sit there in the darkness until his friends arrive to save him. The whole time he didn't have a gun). My favorite ones where the ones with lady detectives, because usually other people (men, mostly. These stories tend to be quite male-centric as a matter of course) underestimate them and they come out and solve the case like a boss. I think I liked the Sherlock Holmes stories more because Conan Doyle is better about explaining how he figured out the case. It drives me crazy when no explanations are given. The writing varied due to the different authors, but most of it was about as good as Conan Doyle's. I think the popularity of Sherlock Holmes is due mainly to his singular character. He's just so memorable and iconic. You think of mysteries and detectives and you think of Sherlock Holmes and his friend Watson.