Marcie was strong. She cried, and then she sometimes held it all in, too. But she always broke down when she talked about the people she would leave behind.
"Oh, my mom," she said. "My mom is going to be devastated. I don't know what she's going to do."
I held her hand and she squeezed it as the tears oozed from her eyes and she gulped. I ached to my core.
I hated to see her cry. In all my time with Marcie, I had never gotten used to the idea of seeing her unhappy or in pain, or sad in any way. I always thought that she should feel nothing but happiness, unrealistic as that was.
Of course, if she cried in any case because of me, and that was not unheard of, it usually ended in immediate efforts to reconcile and a sense of great guilt. It didn't matter if I was right.
It was never right for me to see her upset.
But when Marcie cried the most with me was when she reviewed her life, very discreetly, in the form of her friends and family, and her thoughts of how her departure would impact them.
When her thoughts turned to all of those lives her own was entangled with, she spoke clearly and thoughtfully, viewing each person through their own unique lens, colored and shaped by the moments they shared together.
She would call me and sit with me on the couch, or lay in the bed with me, and nearer the end, call me to her side.
I was left in these beautiful and heartrending moments in a state most who know me would say was unfathomable. Speechless and overwhelmed is not my native mien.
She feared for everyone she knew. She hoped for them, too. She lamented the loss of their future experiences together and her support of them. She smiled and then cried at the goals people had set, which she was sure she would not see achieved.
She would often think of people before they visited her, and talk to me about them. She practiced her strolls down memory lane to help her organize her thoughts before she met them.
"I want to make sure that she... I hope he doesn't midn if I bring up... I wonder if she would mind if..." she was always planning and listing and preparing.
I am always grateful that we were so enmeshed in each other that we could finish each others' thoughts and read each others' minds. Marcie was not as at ease with it, even if it was second nature.
Though I might annoy Marcie when I finished hers in better times, she let that go in her last few months and would smile and grip my hand. It was not me wearing her down, she just needed the help.
Her thoughts started out where she wanted to be, but the disease would take them afar or stall her. She would look at me and ask without words. It was relief when i got it right.
"Yes, exactly," she said. "ExACTly. Thank you, sweetie."
"No, thank you," I would say.
She usually smiled at that. I did not tell her that every thought I helped her finish was another precious thing to know her by and another taste of her to savor for me as she drifted away.
She did this for weeks at a time, and I was devastated. I did not know what to say to all of her touching memories and thoughts on our friends. I felt the loss all of her friends would experience as she relayed it in her wise and sweet way.
She was getting depressed one day when speaking of a friend who was distant, one we had not been able to contact. I was at a loss, feeling despair as she wondered what had happened in her life.
I looked down and she said, "I promised to get in touch, I should have a long time ago," she said.
I sighed and finally something worthwhile came out of me. But to say them to her, to give her an inkling that I knew the road was to end for her, after resisting the thought for so long, broke me completely.
"I think that she, like everyone else you are thinking about, will miss you very badly, baby," I said. "But I think that they are all going to be very grateful to have someone like you to make their lives as rich as you do, just like I do."
She started crying but my thought was not complete, and I was falling apart, too.
"I think," I said, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood, "That you have done more for all the people in your life in the time they have had with you than anyone else ever will, and with such joy and spirit and fire..."
She covered her mouth wand closed her eyes as I rubbed her other hand in mine. I kissed her on the cheek.
"I just think you don't have to worry about people, because even if you aren't here to do things for them, they will be here to do things for other people like you have," I said. "It's something you do by just being yourself, you inspire people."
I gulped and smiled at her and I said, "I am sure you'll find a way to keep doing what you do best."
I hugged her and she wept with me. There were more conversations like this. Her loved ones came and went. Her memories and worries of them were and are are theirs to share, not mine and not here.
But for me, I am hoping that one little legacy, Marcie's inspiring ways, her cheerleading and wisdom-sharing and life well-lived, will remain as strong their lives as it is in mine, and in these pages.
Showing posts with label Mourning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mourning. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2009
Monday, November 3, 2008
Letter to Marcie-Halloween
It's another little gift you gave me. In 1993, I had not celebrated Halloween for 10 years. I just didn't see the sense in it. But you prevailed upon me to take another look at the holiday.
"So I was thinking we shoul do something for Halloween," you said.
'Hmm... dinner, dancing and gymnastics?' I thought. 'Maybe in costume for the last two? Helllloooooo nurse!'
"Well, what do you have in mind, Miss Stoddard?" I asked, trying to be suave.
"Let's go to Ralph's and get pumpkins to carve!" you blurted out. "We'll have some dinner and then we'll hand out candy. It'll be great. We get a few kids and all of my crazy neighbors come every year for candy. It'll be so fun!"
I guess the silence on the other end of the line tipped my hand. I was a bit taken aback, certainly. "I don't really do that on Halloween, usually," I said.
"Well, what do you do?" you asked, the edge of pre-annoyance (my name for that 'why didn't you just agree with me like you are supposed to' tone you had) definitely there.
"Well, usually I just hang out with friends and maybe go dancing or drinking or hit the beach for a bonfire," I offered. The truth was, I just used it as an excuse to party. I hadn't worn a costume in a decade.
"Well, I love Halloween and I would really like it if you would come over and carve a pumpkin with me, but I understand if you want to go out and get drunk with your friends," you said, matter-of-factly. "Some people need to do that."
Oh, it did sting, but it was effective. "No, that does sound fun," I said. "I'll tell you in class tomorrow. Maybe we can go to a party after trick or treaters stop coming by?"
"I work the next day," you said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow. You know, you really don't have to if you don't want to. I understand and I won't be mad if you want to do your own thing."
It stung for sure. You would have been hurt, I could tell.
"You know what, let's get pumpkins tomorrow," I said. "Even if I don't hand out candy, we can have some fun and hang out making a mess."
"OKAY! OKay, we'll take the 7 after class," you said. "Oh, I am so excited! I can't wait to see what you carve."
And the die was cast. I read three articles on pumpkin carving that night and decided I had to make this a good Halloween. We carved them that night and yours was a wonderful one-tooth with a pointy grin and evil eyes.
I somewhat missed the mark. I made the theater faces in pumpkin but they lacked menace. "They look very nice," you said. "But they are not very Halloween, are they."
I guess vindication came in the form of your gay neighbors' exclamation. "Oh, my god, I want to take these home. These are the coolest. Can I have them?"
You shrugged and pointed at me, saying "Ask him, he made them."
Two days later I had a fittingly menacing and imperfect pumpkin to put next to yours as the stream of patrons began. I remember your black hat and gown, and the huge witch nose from CVS.
You were otherwise so cute... but that green nose...
It was my first Halloween in ten years. Last year, just two days after you left us, I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. You were so happy at the anumber of them we got at our little house.
I knew you were there with me, and even if I had a very hard time doing it, I learned from you well, and I took a guess at each child's costume. This year, tyhe hulk, Darth Vader and devils were prominent.
Thank you for helping me understand the joy of the whole thing. This was a special holiday for you since you learned about it. For me, it was a special holiday for us because we got to be kids together, and simply play.
It was a sweet time of year for us, Marcie.
Of course, I noticed the perennial favorite... all the little witches in their regalia. There were plenty of those, but I could have used one more.
Love,
F
"So I was thinking we shoul do something for Halloween," you said.
'Hmm... dinner, dancing and gymnastics?' I thought. 'Maybe in costume for the last two? Helllloooooo nurse!'
"Well, what do you have in mind, Miss Stoddard?" I asked, trying to be suave.
"Let's go to Ralph's and get pumpkins to carve!" you blurted out. "We'll have some dinner and then we'll hand out candy. It'll be great. We get a few kids and all of my crazy neighbors come every year for candy. It'll be so fun!"
I guess the silence on the other end of the line tipped my hand. I was a bit taken aback, certainly. "I don't really do that on Halloween, usually," I said.
"Well, what do you do?" you asked, the edge of pre-annoyance (my name for that 'why didn't you just agree with me like you are supposed to' tone you had) definitely there.
"Well, usually I just hang out with friends and maybe go dancing or drinking or hit the beach for a bonfire," I offered. The truth was, I just used it as an excuse to party. I hadn't worn a costume in a decade.
"Well, I love Halloween and I would really like it if you would come over and carve a pumpkin with me, but I understand if you want to go out and get drunk with your friends," you said, matter-of-factly. "Some people need to do that."
Oh, it did sting, but it was effective. "No, that does sound fun," I said. "I'll tell you in class tomorrow. Maybe we can go to a party after trick or treaters stop coming by?"
"I work the next day," you said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow. You know, you really don't have to if you don't want to. I understand and I won't be mad if you want to do your own thing."
It stung for sure. You would have been hurt, I could tell.
"You know what, let's get pumpkins tomorrow," I said. "Even if I don't hand out candy, we can have some fun and hang out making a mess."
"OKAY! OKay, we'll take the 7 after class," you said. "Oh, I am so excited! I can't wait to see what you carve."
And the die was cast. I read three articles on pumpkin carving that night and decided I had to make this a good Halloween. We carved them that night and yours was a wonderful one-tooth with a pointy grin and evil eyes.
I somewhat missed the mark. I made the theater faces in pumpkin but they lacked menace. "They look very nice," you said. "But they are not very Halloween, are they."
I guess vindication came in the form of your gay neighbors' exclamation. "Oh, my god, I want to take these home. These are the coolest. Can I have them?"
You shrugged and pointed at me, saying "Ask him, he made them."
Two days later I had a fittingly menacing and imperfect pumpkin to put next to yours as the stream of patrons began. I remember your black hat and gown, and the huge witch nose from CVS.
You were otherwise so cute... but that green nose...
It was my first Halloween in ten years. Last year, just two days after you left us, I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. You were so happy at the anumber of them we got at our little house.
I knew you were there with me, and even if I had a very hard time doing it, I learned from you well, and I took a guess at each child's costume. This year, tyhe hulk, Darth Vader and devils were prominent.
Thank you for helping me understand the joy of the whole thing. This was a special holiday for you since you learned about it. For me, it was a special holiday for us because we got to be kids together, and simply play.
It was a sweet time of year for us, Marcie.
Of course, I noticed the perennial favorite... all the little witches in their regalia. There were plenty of those, but I could have used one more.
Love,
F
Monday, October 6, 2008
One year ago
I walked into the room and asked her if she needed help getting up. She did. I helped her and her legs buckled under her. The day before, she had been walking fine. I was upset, of course, and called hospice for help.
By the time they arrived, Jane had come by. It was agonizing to fight with the hospice people. Marcie needed help, and they were insisting it was the progression of her disease.
I was suspicious. She had been fine the night before. She had also had a medication change.
Her diuretic, used to control her swelling in the arms from post-surgical edema, had been replaced by the hospice doctor with a powerful statin. I did not piece it together right away, but a few months after her death, I did.
They changed the drug that night while she slept at a nursing home. She never recovered.
There was no progression of her disease, her tumors had been retreating. I found this out a week later. She had, until that night, been recovering and gettign just a little stronger.
This will not stand. I think the statin did the damage, and her three-week downward spiral and death, losing function on one side of her body as she did, lies at the feet of the doctor whose care she was under.
On her birthday, last year, a mistake or something more sinister sent Marcie on a hellish journey to death.
I remembered her very good, sweet nature today as I went through my routine as best I could. I lit her candles and talked to her. Now that her special day has drawn to a close, I reflect on the injustice of it all.
Four decades of her grace, sweetness and beauty was not enough. She, and all of us deserved and had coming far more.
This will not stand.
By the time they arrived, Jane had come by. It was agonizing to fight with the hospice people. Marcie needed help, and they were insisting it was the progression of her disease.
I was suspicious. She had been fine the night before. She had also had a medication change.
Her diuretic, used to control her swelling in the arms from post-surgical edema, had been replaced by the hospice doctor with a powerful statin. I did not piece it together right away, but a few months after her death, I did.
They changed the drug that night while she slept at a nursing home. She never recovered.
There was no progression of her disease, her tumors had been retreating. I found this out a week later. She had, until that night, been recovering and gettign just a little stronger.
This will not stand. I think the statin did the damage, and her three-week downward spiral and death, losing function on one side of her body as she did, lies at the feet of the doctor whose care she was under.
On her birthday, last year, a mistake or something more sinister sent Marcie on a hellish journey to death.
I remembered her very good, sweet nature today as I went through my routine as best I could. I lit her candles and talked to her. Now that her special day has drawn to a close, I reflect on the injustice of it all.
Four decades of her grace, sweetness and beauty was not enough. She, and all of us deserved and had coming far more.
This will not stand.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Marcie's first resting place
So, I went on a long pilgrimage this morning, walking to the opposite side of the island with Marcie's cremains. I found the spot I wanted and felt he would have her breath stolen by in life, and let her go.
It was one of the hardest days ever, but I feel I did her the honor I should. The film is below. Good night, folks.
It was one of the hardest days ever, but I feel I did her the honor I should. The film is below. Good night, folks.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The guardian and the preparation
Seamus has taken to sitting on Marcie's table of memorial, alongside her container. This began a short time ago. Usually, he slept under her. It is almost as if he has to be even closer. Of course, my dreams have accelerated, too.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Hong Kong Preparation-The Plan Begins
I have begun to pack for the trip and prepare my house. I am sorry to have to leave Seamus behind, but he will be in good hands. In the mean time, I have decided to bring a little bit of Marcie's cremains to Hong Kong.
Marcie's family and friends know of her love for sea turtles. She was enchanted by one during her trip to Hawaii. She spoke of it constantly afterward, and looked forward to going back to that lagoon for another "encounter," as she described it.
The island of Lamma, where I will be staying, is home to the Green turtle, an endangered species that lays its eggs there after travelling thousands of miles. Their breeding season ends in October, so we are just in time.
I will leave some of her ashes on or near the beach with the turtles, so that she can commune with them and be visited every summer. I will try to place her in a place with a nice view of the beach it all happens at.
I will, of course, snap pictures.
Marcie's family and friends know of her love for sea turtles. She was enchanted by one during her trip to Hawaii. She spoke of it constantly afterward, and looked forward to going back to that lagoon for another "encounter," as she described it.
The island of Lamma, where I will be staying, is home to the Green turtle, an endangered species that lays its eggs there after travelling thousands of miles. Their breeding season ends in October, so we are just in time.
I will leave some of her ashes on or near the beach with the turtles, so that she can commune with them and be visited every summer. I will try to place her in a place with a nice view of the beach it all happens at.
I will, of course, snap pictures.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Her Mp3 Player-The Smithereens 2
When I spoke of "Kiss your tears away," I supposed it was intended to be about me to her, kissing her tears away. But Marcie was layered and deep, and it is likely she felt the song encapsulated things we both felt.
She may have felt that sense toward me in the moments that came so slowly and yet inexorably, but I certainly felt them towards her in the moments that went by so quickly and so unmercifully.
But if that song was meaningful then Cut Flowers was even moreso. When Christina and Jane visited, we flipped through albums. In one of them we found my first flowers to her, a couple of roses. They were pressed and I remembered her putting them there.
I suppose she assumed they would remind her of me. Instead, they remind me now of how much she cherished everything. And the song? I'm sure you'll understand the connection beyond the simple titular accident.This selection is a feat of knowledge and intimacy only she could accomplish.
Cut Flowers
(Jim Babjak/Pat DiNizio)
Sentimental gestures never meant that much to me
But if I had her here today
I'd shed a tear for all the world to see
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
A gentle girl who needed all the love I had to give
But I was blind to her and would not give
What she needed most to live
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
Cut flowers pressed between the pages of a book she gave
I go to her and say, "I'm sorry,"
Then I put cut flowers on her grave
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental way
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
I know how very thoughtful and loving and very heartrent she must have been to listen to this and place it on there to ponder. I know it right now. But I also know I don't have to say I am sorry. Our regrets were thankfully resolved.
But wow, it is a beautiful song. Cut Flowers by The Smithereens.
She may have felt that sense toward me in the moments that came so slowly and yet inexorably, but I certainly felt them towards her in the moments that went by so quickly and so unmercifully.
But if that song was meaningful then Cut Flowers was even moreso. When Christina and Jane visited, we flipped through albums. In one of them we found my first flowers to her, a couple of roses. They were pressed and I remembered her putting them there.
I suppose she assumed they would remind her of me. Instead, they remind me now of how much she cherished everything. And the song? I'm sure you'll understand the connection beyond the simple titular accident.This selection is a feat of knowledge and intimacy only she could accomplish.
Cut Flowers
(Jim Babjak/Pat DiNizio)
Sentimental gestures never meant that much to me
But if I had her here today
I'd shed a tear for all the world to see
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
A gentle girl who needed all the love I had to give
But I was blind to her and would not give
What she needed most to live
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
Cut flowers pressed between the pages of a book she gave
I go to her and say, "I'm sorry,"
Then I put cut flowers on her grave
Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental way
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days
I know how very thoughtful and loving and very heartrent she must have been to listen to this and place it on there to ponder. I know it right now. But I also know I don't have to say I am sorry. Our regrets were thankfully resolved.
But wow, it is a beautiful song. Cut Flowers by The Smithereens.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Big Job, Big Memories, Big Pain
I have been slowly storing all of Marcie's I-tunes and MP3s on my laptop. Previously, I had somewhat avoided this because the music is so full of her personality. It's like she's in the next room, playing some music.
Which reminds me of something that happened the other day. Marcie loved Concrete Blonde and had a few of their CDs. I had just gotten home and fed Seamus. As I began to stretch before my run, I heard "Lullabye" strain out from the room.
I cautiously asked, croaking, "Marcie?" as I looked around the corner.
No. Seamus sat with his back against the boom box, cleaning himself in his post-dinner frenzy.
That aside, much music is now way too loaded for me. Even the music which came before us is tainted with it, because so much of why we connected was in our love of music and similarity of tastes.
I suppose I will reach back to the music when she has been gone and my memory fades. But for now, I find eery song from our time together just pounding me with memories and then joy, then, a slow sadness as the songs end.
For now, I am just trying to back everything up and make sure her library, so illustrative of her moods as the songs were ordered, map her progression and feelings very clearly.
Even if some of it is painful to comprehend her feelings with, it is at least a window into her that was not lost. It's kind of a journal in music I can read when I am strong enough.
The best part? Looking at her beautiful handwriting on the covers of her backup CDs. I can see so much of her in her loops and lines.
Which reminds me of something that happened the other day. Marcie loved Concrete Blonde and had a few of their CDs. I had just gotten home and fed Seamus. As I began to stretch before my run, I heard "Lullabye" strain out from the room.
I cautiously asked, croaking, "Marcie?" as I looked around the corner.
No. Seamus sat with his back against the boom box, cleaning himself in his post-dinner frenzy.
That aside, much music is now way too loaded for me. Even the music which came before us is tainted with it, because so much of why we connected was in our love of music and similarity of tastes.
I suppose I will reach back to the music when she has been gone and my memory fades. But for now, I find eery song from our time together just pounding me with memories and then joy, then, a slow sadness as the songs end.
For now, I am just trying to back everything up and make sure her library, so illustrative of her moods as the songs were ordered, map her progression and feelings very clearly.
Even if some of it is painful to comprehend her feelings with, it is at least a window into her that was not lost. It's kind of a journal in music I can read when I am strong enough.
The best part? Looking at her beautiful handwriting on the covers of her backup CDs. I can see so much of her in her loops and lines.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Not being good at waiting
I was never the kind to sit and wait,
I was never one to bide time.
But you were always patient,
and with a touch or a word I was calm.
The worst waiting ever for me
was the same as the worst for you.
I charged and demanded action
and you let me, and it was ours.
It did not matter in the end
no rush was in time, no haste.
When I finally knew the time approached
I watched and learned to wait again.
And I may have been patient,
I may have let you bide your time.
A single touch calmed you,
and a word comforted.
I learned to hate waiting anew
not for the time it took,
but for the time it didn't,
and for the time it should have,
because nothing ever hurt more
than when the waiting was over.
I was never one to bide time.
But you were always patient,
and with a touch or a word I was calm.
The worst waiting ever for me
was the same as the worst for you.
I charged and demanded action
and you let me, and it was ours.
It did not matter in the end
no rush was in time, no haste.
When I finally knew the time approached
I watched and learned to wait again.
And I may have been patient,
I may have let you bide your time.
A single touch calmed you,
and a word comforted.
I learned to hate waiting anew
not for the time it took,
but for the time it didn't,
and for the time it should have,
because nothing ever hurt more
than when the waiting was over.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Her Little Ways: That quiet whisper
Not every special moment in my time Marcie was some gigantic occasion or breakthrough event. My tendency, I believe, is always to reflect on those things I know were grand and now will simply not be. But I often miss, as I have noted, the little things she did even more.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
An Unshared Road
I remember the paths we chose.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.
Monday, July 21, 2008
On The Patio
Our dusk was red and yellow again,
It was every summer sunset you ever knew.
The mist of the hose in the smoggy air
made mud of everything except the plants.
They are still there, all the ones you left
the dragon and the gardenias,
the pink geraniums and the elkhorns,
The things Tanya and I repotted.
There are new ones, too.
A sago palm from a friend,
A more delicate one from your work.
They all thrive oblivious next to
pots of my bitter herbs.
They are new life for old.
They are not equal.
Nor am I.
It was every summer sunset you ever knew.
The mist of the hose in the smoggy air
made mud of everything except the plants.
They are still there, all the ones you left
the dragon and the gardenias,
the pink geraniums and the elkhorns,
The things Tanya and I repotted.
There are new ones, too.
A sago palm from a friend,
A more delicate one from your work.
They all thrive oblivious next to
pots of my bitter herbs.
They are new life for old.
They are not equal.
Nor am I.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 5)
It was drawing closer, and Marcie had determined the precise moment of my borthday's optimal celebration. This provided the proper framework, of course, for the preparation of lists, acquisition of goods and formulation of plans.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 4)
I had a long walk home. I stepped on a sharp pebble, stubbed my big toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk and realized, in that very moment, that my Champion shorts were actually my Champion boxers.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 3)
It was a week later that Marcie, having sulked and for a day or two before resuming our normal relations, began to prod again. It started from the side, so to speak.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 2)
"I don't remember asking you not to celebrate it," I said. "I just remember not being used to celebrating it, at least, not for a long time, and asking you not to overdo it."
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
A Call to Breakfast
Some of my friends know that I have been on a diet of sorts. Mostly I am simply eating healthier and running, but I have definitely kicked in some calorie counting. Today, I was reminded to occasionally cut loose and enjoy a good hearty meal.
It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.
I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.
I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."
Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.
I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.
I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.
I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.
In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.
I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.
I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.
It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:
I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.
We'll have to have waffles, then.
It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.
I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.
I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."
Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.
I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.
I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.
I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.
In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.
I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.
I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.
It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:
I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.
We'll have to have waffles, then.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Otto Van Otterson (Conclusion)
We never found out Otto's real name. Marcie didn't need to, having sufficiently filled in the blanks herself.
When Marcie went with me to Humboldt County, she commented that she would miss a lot of people, but, jokingly, she asked, "Well, I wonder what will happen to Otto?"
He was still there when we came back, and now he was living in our new neighborhood, University Heights. We watched him one evening on Adams, pushing his cart to the fence along thew canyon by Trolley Barn Park.
"He's so slow now, honey," Marcie said. "He's too old to be out here."
And it was true. Every time I saw him afterward, there was a little less pep in his step. He was slowing down.
Soon he had no cart, just bore a plastic grocery bag and boarded the bus stooped and weary each time I saw him. There were no sweeping gestures or warbling treatises. He looked around furtively, not proudly and theatrically.
I told Marcie when I saw him and I always said that he looked okay, even though didn't usually. I did not tell her when I saw him being loaded onto an ambulance at Trolley Barn Park as I rode the 11 past.
The last time I laid eyes on Otto was during the summer Marcie received her diagnosis. He was sleeping, sitting, with his bag next to him on the bench by the fence at Trolley Barn Park.
He was snoring as I walked past, and his beard was combed, his flatware was in place, his suit was clean-looking and his pocket also sported a white folded napkin. His pin had changed, however and was now an RAF "bullseye" pin.
I couldn't help but notice his multiple hospital admission wristbands. I began to get close, to read them and know his name, but I stopped and walked away.
His name was Otto, and that's who he had to be.
When Marcie went with me to Humboldt County, she commented that she would miss a lot of people, but, jokingly, she asked, "Well, I wonder what will happen to Otto?"
He was still there when we came back, and now he was living in our new neighborhood, University Heights. We watched him one evening on Adams, pushing his cart to the fence along thew canyon by Trolley Barn Park.
"He's so slow now, honey," Marcie said. "He's too old to be out here."
And it was true. Every time I saw him afterward, there was a little less pep in his step. He was slowing down.
Soon he had no cart, just bore a plastic grocery bag and boarded the bus stooped and weary each time I saw him. There were no sweeping gestures or warbling treatises. He looked around furtively, not proudly and theatrically.
I told Marcie when I saw him and I always said that he looked okay, even though didn't usually. I did not tell her when I saw him being loaded onto an ambulance at Trolley Barn Park as I rode the 11 past.
The last time I laid eyes on Otto was during the summer Marcie received her diagnosis. He was sleeping, sitting, with his bag next to him on the bench by the fence at Trolley Barn Park.
He was snoring as I walked past, and his beard was combed, his flatware was in place, his suit was clean-looking and his pocket also sported a white folded napkin. His pin had changed, however and was now an RAF "bullseye" pin.
I couldn't help but notice his multiple hospital admission wristbands. I began to get close, to read them and know his name, but I stopped and walked away.
His name was Otto, and that's who he had to be.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tough to watch
The most innocuous things can knock me down and send me back into grief. Television shows do that instantly.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The blouse
I remember what you said that night
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse
"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."
You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.
"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."
You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.
"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."
I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."
You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.
"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."
For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.
Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.
For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.
I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.
"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."
"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"
"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."
The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse
"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."
You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.
"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."
You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.
"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."
I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."
You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.
"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."
For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.
Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.
For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.
I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.
"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."
"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"
"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."
The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.