What was I dreaming last night?
I woke up this morning remembering what I hadn’t remembered in a while: a phone message from a few years back, in which she was hoping I’d come and stay with her for a while. Her voice was cheerful, almost youthful, and it was clear after a minute that she thought she was talking to her twin brother, Paul, who had died in a car accident twenty years before I was born. A month later, another phone message in which she was weeping, calling to tell me that “Mother” had died. Meaning, her mother. Again, she thought she was talking to the other Paul, and some impulse in her brain made her think that the mother who had died in 1960 had died all over again. This was 2006, and I was still capable back then of being struck silent by what dementia was doing to her, though we didn't yet know enough to call it that. I remember lying down after both occasions, too stunned to feel anything like sadness, my heart pounding on and on.
I guess I’m thinking of the funeral Friday, and my fixation of the moment: why the black of my sportcoat doesn't exactly match the black of my pants. Not that I've even tried on the pants, which is provoking another worry. The next blog post: Too Fat for His Funeral Pants! (And we haven’t even talked about ties.) This morning it makes sense to me that Jewish people bury their dead right away. The mind wants to move.
Which we have been doing in our way. Last night I ended up unpacking six or seven boxes of books. I don’t think I’ve ever said much about consolidation in relation to our new house. For the first time I have a study in which I have room for all my books. So many have been packed away in storage units, basements, closets for so long that it’s a veritable wonder to see them all out. My Houston books (with their grey spray of mildew) next to dogeared books from grad school. So many layers of time, in one space. And the titles: The Interloper, Mariette in Ecstacy, This Book Will Save Your Life, Shamp of the City-Solo, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, Light in August, A Fan's Notes, Good Deeds, Don’t Cry, A Seahorse Year, Radical Love, In Awe…
UPDATE: Pants fit fine.
6 comments:
i wish i could aptly express how much these posts mean to me. (it's as if i can feel them echoing in body)
thank you, Paul.
So much here, and the pictures are stunning, upside down blooming bush and all. The phone calls -- that she called you as a brother (mixed with son), once to weep and say that mother died, that is such prism of time, experience, relationship and mourning. Glad, in that pragmatic way, that the pants fit.
It'll be good to see you when you're in Western Mass. Wishing you the things you need, in the meantime, to move through the funeral and the time before and after, body, mind, clothes and their colors, and all.
Thank you, Nancy. Thank you, Susan. That glass ball is on the window ledge of our living room. It's determined to turn the lilac upside down, all day, every day.
It helps to know that you're listening right now. xxx
these posts are taking on a life of their own. i can see the process evolving. as nancy said, the posts are really meaningful. each day i've been checking your blog to make sure you are ok. the image of the glass ball is interesting; looking at all angles of the same image is so representative of what you are going through.
i'm glad that you have the room to unpack your books. they are so crucial to comforting you during the bad times (as are well-fitting pants). i'm a bit jealous of your amazing copy of 'the years.'
hang in there, paul. we're thinking of you.
Thanks, Jayme. I haven't seen that copy of THE YEARS in...years. I nearly quaked when I pulled it out of the box. It's not a first edition, but it is the 1937 Harcourt edition, which was actually a NY Times Bestseller in its day. I think I found it in a used bookstore in Key West.
And the mind wants to remember how to laugh too...this may get us both in trouble but remember the story of Tullah Bankhead at the funeral? When the priest came down the aisle with the incense burner, it is reputed that she leaned over and said: 'Love the dress, but your purse is on fire." Be well.
B.
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