recent thoughts on mortality

I think, in a way, that when we hurt for the death of others it isn't only our pain for them, but our pain for ourselves. That said, I have had, albeit tangentially, a rough weekend with regard to the tragic and untimely death of others. Not old others, but young, healthy, good people. And I think what hurts most is my inability to offer anything concrete against their gaping loss.

Saturday night. I arrive and the dogs are going crazy barking, and growling. I stand still in the late evening light: the blue glow that rises as if from the earth itself instead of from the fringe of sky still illuminated by the last of the sun's rays. I don't fear, but I wait for the labrador to remember me, from the day before. I let the growling go on. The door opens on a silhouette that comforts me. I don't know it then, but I learn that my presence is even more of a comfort.

There was a phone call, I am told. There was a friend, assassinated over lunch. No apparent reason, except for his hard-earned wealth in a small town. I listen. I can't do anything but offer my arms, an embrace against the sorrow.

In the morning, not really morning any more I get a worried phone call. Lani? I was worried when you didn't answer, says my mother. Our dear friends' daughter, just past 30, about to graduate from a prestigious medical school, and by all accounts a wonderful daughter died this morning. She was run over by a car, accidentally it would seem. I don't have any words to offer. I can do nothing but come home and reassure my mother, again. I am safe, for now. I can't promise any more than that.

Estranged

Today I realized just how far removed I am from this place that still sort of feels like home. It began with my morning odyssey to the car rental agency. "Yup, m'aam, we're in Derry."
Of course I didn't check to know if they were still at the same location in Derry as before, or, even as in the phone book.

So my dad and I cut through back streets, and we drive across town, only to discover in lieu of the Enterprise, a used car dealership. And of course, no phone number. I call the house, but my brother, still suffering jet-lag or insomnia, or a mixture of the two doesn't answer the phone even though I call three times in the hope that he will notice the urgency. So we stop at a Cumberland Farms, on Broadway, a quirky little convenient store that stirs memories better left unstirred. "Yeah, it's up on Crystal Avenue, in the same building as the Quizno's."

So we go. And my dad leaves me, with the understanding that the reservation I made earlier would be fine. It was. But this weird, pasty looking white man, comes in, pallid to the point of near transparency, trembling as if he were fiending for drugs (which he likely was, given the looks of him) clutching a crumpled jacket, and with a wobbly voice. I exit the building, imagining, as I am wont to do, a back story for such a character. I climb into my rented ultra-fuel-efficient vehicle, and pull away. That man, creepy as he may be, is not my problem. I remind myself, and admonish my wandering imagination for its wanderings.

So I drag Ari from bed, tapping my foot impatiently, and we first head to the town hall, hoping that we can obtain some proof of residency for him so that we can procure a replacement for his long-expired driver's license. We do get his voter registration card, but it will serve no purpose at the DMV, but what is more disconcerting is that both of these places have moved!

Everything rests, immutable, and yet, such very basic services like the Town Hall (I had forgotten the multi-million dollar Police Station and Town Offices that were under construction when I left four years ago) and the DMV, now on South Willow by the Mega-Shaw's instead of by the INS office on Canal St, have relocated in seemingly innocuous ways. Seemingly innocuous because what is deeper is this disturbance to my memory, the placement of things, the exact location shifting, causing a deep sense of estrangement or alienation from this place, that I know will never be mine again.

We went to Consuelo's to see Martín and Arturo, and we ran into Arty, still the old Gringo, still totally un-p.c. Some things never change. It is good to go somewhere where everyone knows your name, even if you forget so much in the course of a lifetime.

April showers

I awoke to snow on the ground.

A light dusting. And the pitter patter of rain on shingles. If it is raining, maybe my friends won't have to work. It is 8 am. I'll wait for a phone call that means an escape from my parents' house.

I'm not sure what it is, well, beyond the fact that there are so many half-completed projects strewn about... why I don't like the isolation of this place. It should be perfect. No one to bother me, or distract me. Turns out I am more of a bother and a distraction to myself than others are.

I think the rain will melt the thin film of tenacious white from the decayed lawn. I think I'll crawl back into bed and read some more of the delicious mystery novel that is my guilty pleasure.

Perhaps when I get up, the panorama will be other.

Thursday, plain and simple

The yeast and honey are proofing in the ancient, solid stoneware bread bowl that was my great grandmother's. I debated whether to climb up the chair, onto the counter so that my little arms could reach it, thinking that perhaps I could make do with a smaller metal bowl, but tradition and common sense (if the other metal bowl was practically full with the 7+ cups of flour, where would I actually have room to mix?) won out.

The house is quiet. The cats follow me around, up the stairs, down the stairs, into bedrooms, back out again. Their quizzical little expressions follow me with impertinence. The orange girl, fluffier than I recall still climbs up between the fabric and plastic shower curtains to oversee my ablutions.

Today there is no snow falling, the warmth that radiates from the black asphalt is a promising sign that maybe, just maybe, the winter is finally over. There are small buds poking their heads out of the thawing ground and the few, white, icy patches that remain are quickly receding in the mid-afternoon sun.

I know I'll need to get to work soon, that my temporary respite has got to end and my (aching) work ethic needs to kick in. Work. It has to happen. No more morning surprises and day long wanderings. The kitchen is in order, scrubbed, disinfected, streamlined to my specifications. I can live with this, I think. For a while. I'll begin my work soon, I reiterate to myself in an effort to convince me of the rightness of the endeavor, but for now, I'll just bake some whole wheat yogurt bread, read one of the books I discovered in the overflowing basement, and when my kid comes home, take her out for a game of ball.