Beach yoga

I thought he would die of a broken heart, but instead he does yoga on the beach. Hangs out with the guys. Infirm and mainly silent. He lives with the hope of survival. Love was there. Now it's not. So, he takes the bus to the beach. Shuffles with his walker. Tries to learn to breathe again. His eyes betray him. Weepy, they droop. Heavy from not seeing.

It's not only age though. It's not only loss though. He forces us to see what was never there. We only imagined it.

I always knew that I would be left with him, not you. You dangled your silken threads, tempting us to hold on, though we knew we could not. And as you moved farther away, finally leaving us, the threads remained suspended, defying gravity and your children.

He tries to make sense of his life now but all that is left is a downward dog and a breath here and there. Incapable of turning inside, he stays on the outside refusing to dream. With only his walker to hold on to, he remains asleep, refusing to awaken. 

Coda

Oedipus shakes with anger. He cannot let go of her things, Cannot let go. Cannot. Rooting through boxes in the hope of finding her. Over and over again.  He asks for help and then denies it. Stares at the empty rooms and knows that in a matter of days, he will no longer have his power. Pets her mink coats. Over and over again.

She never gave him what he wanted. That is why he shouted at her to stay alive. Couldn't let her go. It would mean that he would never have it. He will never have it. She is gone. And with her departure, love and its promise went, too. He is still a five year old boy. Staring at her in the hope she sees him. She doesn't see anyone.

He screams at me, thinking I am like her. Thinking I am her. Accuses me of taking things he wanted. I don't want anything. I don't need anything. But just in case, I take a scarf. A pair of long, black gloves. A photo.

In a matter of days, I lose the scarf. But, I don't lose her. She is with me. My little girl now. Sitting on top of my head. I take her everywhere.  He could, too. His anger blurs everything. Losing sight of the accidental gifts. He wants to punish her. Punish us. The air is silent now. No one will talk to him.  His mouth will stop working. His heart will dry up.  Beaten by his anger into a big black heap of despair.

Finishing the Hat

The end is approaching. With it, the beginning. He is destitute. It is a tragedy now, as it was then. He has no time to make up for it as he once did. He fought it, but he never understood it. Never tried to see how he could put it aside.Learning what the end means doesn't leave much to his imagination. Finality is really final. It leaves him beaten up. Bruised. Empty. Comfort comes from suppressing his dreams. His love was interrupted. If he examined it under a brighter light, he would see that it remains love.Always.  But he cannot probe. Cannot touch it. Refuses to transform the pain.

Buddha talked of becoming what you think. The mind is everything. He has become a beggar. He thinks of money all the time, but that is not what has broken him. That is his mistake. If he could take love back in his hands, he would see that he was the richest man. But he cannot. His heart is jagged and rough. He searches for coins in hope of salvation. Unable to stand straight, he breaks.

Queen for a day

When your mother is the Queen of England, it is important to be very, very discreet. You learn this from the start, when independent thought and speech converge. Never do anything that draws attention to yourself. Never speak disparagingly, not to say candidly. Never is pretty much the operative word.

Of course, if your mother isn't the Queen of England, but just looks like her, well, then different rules apply.  You may want to follow the course outlined above, but it is a bit restrictive. Unless, of course, you insist on following in the path of the Royal family. And don't mind having little say in your life. But, being Jewish kind of makes that off limits for me, so, I guess there really aren't any rules that apply. Especially, since being the  Jew that I am, is like existing in a homeless state. So, no boundaries. No rules. And a lot of wandering.

My mother was a Queen. And though she did resemble her, she wasn't the Queen of England. Ruler of the  British Empire. In fact, my mother was first in her line to be queen. A Brooklyn version, with a British twist. Ruler of our family. Sovereign in her own right. Pretty impressive, just the same.

Sometimes, after she had her hair done, she resembled George Washington more, but she never liked when I told her that. She also didn't like being told that she resembled Bach after those beauty parlor visits. But, I was never one for subservience and I liked teasing her all the more because she was so serious. So incapable of telling a joke. So regal.  Except when you could crack the shell and then get the giggling going. It didn't happen often, but those eyes would sparkle. The nose would crinkle and out it would come. The girl who was inside all along, biding her time. The girl who would be queen.

Being in a constant state of royal required a subtle learning of how to handle slippery slopes. For example, did I or didn't I openly contest her real age? A loyal subject would never raise the question. A pesky child might. It might surprise you, but as a royal subject, I never once brought it up. I bought the lie, hook, line and sinker. I didn't even consider it a lie.  My pesky siblings were not quite so content to let things go so easily. A few jabs here and there and finally they landed the big one- the social security card. It was over after that, but by that time she was almost 90. Did it really matter?

There were fur collars. Hats tilted askew. Veils. The royal designer was Eileen Fisher. She played the part perfectly. Well, maybe with one exception. She wasn't really an animal lover. No, she would never be caught snuggling with a corgy. Or, with any dog for that matter. And forget horses. Her vision of her kingdom  definitely did not include the outdoors. More likely was a library and a scrabble set. No wellies. No walking jacket.

As she aged, she merged into the Queen Mother. Too old to reign, yet still a figure head. We played the part for years and years with her encouragement.  

But now the Queen is dead. Long live the Queen? I  always thought that statement referred back to the one that had died. Not the new one. Of course. She was the first and the last.  Because who could ever replace her? Another queen? No. not possible. In our royal line, there was only one queen. And there it ends.  All the royal subjects disperse. Holes in their hearts. Flags raised high.

The Lonely Polar Bear

One polar bear set adrift. He wanders. He shivers. He lusts. He knows the end is near. He takes in as much as he is able. It isn't much.

Wobbly, without his bride, his vision blurs. The abyss gets closer and closer. But he cannot see it. Only feel the dread it brings. Its rim. Indecisive edges.

He searches for his home, but it eludes him. There are no famliar scents to guide him. No one to attend to. His days are filled with nothingness. No meaning. The sea entices him. He thinks he can see her reflection.One day he will fall in and go searching for her. Just not yet.

Red sky at night

All hands on deck. Rain in the forecast casts an end to the adventure. A curtain falls.  I am thrown back into my life without a lifeboat.  Without a vest. To the realization that my purpose was your desire. Am I without a purpose now? Will I turn back into a pumpkin?  You are now the past. My past. His past. Past. Gone. I circle the place where you died, on my way to meet my family. You were my family. You were the one. If I keep things as they were, I will perish too. But I know it is not my time. If pushed, you would have admitted that you would not want it so.

I take the sailor by the hand and we venture forth in the rain. It was supposed to be a delight.  Instead, it is a series of sharp stabs to the chest. But, that is only the first step. The recognition that I can breathe without you is a shock. It prompts exploration. I discover the honey and the bee have taken shelter within.

Heuristic

How can a thing of beauty perish before my eyes, leaving me nothing to look at but myself?  No one to serve, yet still insistent on serving. How can I turn the eye inward, the compliment to include me? For as long as she was here, it was easy. Avoidance implied. Preferred. The agenda was predefined. Easy to follow. Now, the absence of order stares me down. I thought if I walked for miles, at the end of the journey I might find it.  That key which was never within my reach.

I am a little girl. I walk down a long corridor. At the end of it, stands a tall iron container, rusted over. It has a door, which I open. I find myself  inside as I am now. The little girl takes the older woman by the hand and together, they walk down the corridor. They are fused. One protects the other. It is all new to them. All new to me.

I can no longer observe. No longer search for another master. There is not only one key. I know now that there are many. But not all the doors need them. I take it slowly. I do not run because there are two of us to think of.  We must keep pace with each other. Learn how to leave in order to return as one.

Pensee

You have given me the gift I was waiting for. It doesn't matter that I have waited for decades. It doesn't matter that I gave it to myself. It doesn't matter that it was always there for the taking. Waiting.

Paris is about the past, isn't it? Plaques on decaying buildings. Preservation. Your voice echoing in my head. Sweetheart. Over and over in your tremulous voice. The vibrations still hold. Reassuring me. In my own voice, I echo yours.

At the street corner, there is a sudden shift in the wind. Something lifts.As my vision worsens, I can see more clearly with my body. It moves on its own. Urges me forward.  As it moves, I am lightened. Something is carried off by the wind. I don't jump up to catch it. It is gone forever. Going back to where it never really existed.  Never was even a shadow. Or even, a shadow of a shadow.

Noctilucent

I can still laugh. That is what I have discovered in the last week. No matter how hard it is when you come to mind. No matter how much it still hurts. I am still capable of laughter. Maybe even more than before. Your death has made everyone dearer. Put faces into sharper focus. Intensified embraces.

Swinging between loss and laughter. Between you and me. Daring myself to believe that I can do something I have never done before. I could dye my hair red. Pack myself into tight jeans and cowboy boots.  Go dancing.

My laughter is not coming from the same place. It is deeper. Louder. Sweeter. What has come between us is nothing more than what was there. I can just see it now. Feel the provenance. Finally. In that brief moment when the summer skies darken. Right before the dawn.

Two months later

As I walk these streets filled with faces, I doubt I will remember even one.  Perhaps the profusion of redheads will register as a point of interest, but the features will blur. Maybe that bus driver with the slick black hair or the little grandmother from Ohio who stood with us on the train when there were no seats. Yes, maybe I will remember their faces for a short time. But not as long as yours. We don't just have memories, we memorize the faces of the ones we have loved. Noses. Eyebrows. Crevices. Sagging jowls. Whatever the familiar turns into, to become once again familiar until it leaves us.

A sharp pain anew when I realize that it is two months today. Two months without you.  I would love to visit with you. To tell you about my trip to Paris. How we ate your favorite foods. I wish I could tell you that we took you with us everywhere. But I cannot. If I did, then I would be lying. Because while you were with us, it is true that you were also gone.  This was a clearing. Not a remembrance.

I don't want to remember any faces. I want to go blank as I walk. I don't want to feel the wrenching pain of loss on every street. In every flower I see. In the first bite of chocolate. I want it to be new, if I can. I want to see myself. The man taking my ticket at the museum looks up and asks if he knows me. But it is the smile I flash him that he knows. It is a sign of recognition between us. Human to human. Yes, he knows me. Just as I know him. It is what we had fleetingly before you died. Eyes locked. Transferring love from one eye to the other.

La Perla

Reluctant to leave for Paris because I thought I would be leaving you behind. Instead, I have left myself behind. I follow the  path of your bread crumbs. You lead me back to some joy, some pain. Another place. Another memory. Whispering through the art work. The streets. But I am not really here. Even though this was my place and you were my visitor. I look through your eyes. Eat what you loved. Wear your clothes.

Unbearable loss. Days that go on and on.  Places we went together, still holding your
presence. Memory stopped.  You were many things to me, but the love I felt was boundless. It still is. How do I preserve it and shed it simultaneously? How do I make sense of  myself?

I return to the garden in the rain. My sister is by my side. We search for the ancient beekeeper who has taken shelter with his bees. Afraid to ask, we just watch.

Stroke of Genius

It has to be told. Told to be understood. I must be the one to tell it. It isn't a long story, but then again it isn't a short story. It is a moment in time that has passed, and yet,still remains. A tale of the moon. Of time lost and gained. Of intermittent smiles.Fleeting recognition. Insight. A boy flying. A book of recent recollections. Geometry unfolding as an art form. Wonder. At the end, it could be that there was nothing. Like an accordion without a player. Elongated memories stitched together. No sound. But the thoughts were so promising. So profound.  That we thought she was on to something.  After all, she had never disappointed. She may have been struck down,  but she was still with us.  We waited for her eyes to open. Even to flutter. It didn't matter how long it took.  We would wait. Wait as long as it took. She could see though she could not speak. Hear though she could not tell.

The eyes never really opened. Thoughts were never uttered. She left behind diamonds and pearls. Sparkles and luster. No one wants it. She is what we really want. Still. A message. A direction. She left us holding a rather large pause and no way to move through it.There may be strength in numbers, but is there sense?

 

The Beekeepers take Paris

Paris, will you take me as I am? I am not who I was. You are no longer familiar. Yet, I come back to you to lick my wounds and walk hand in hand with my sister. We will walk for one purpose. Walk until we can no longer walk. Ponder the future. Ride bicycles as we search for gardens. For flowers still in bloom. Colors that cannot possibly exist.  For the fiction.  But who will  tend to the old man with a broken heart while I am crossing the  Atlantic?

There is a clearing. But the burden doesn't lift. It is merely a glimpse into what might be. The possibility that I choose is a dwelling without a roof. I tell myself that is because I want an unfettered view of  the stars. But it is really because I am not sure I am ready for the stability a roof brings. She always told me that I was honey to the bees.  I mistakenly thought she meant something else. I was her honey. She was my bee.

Perfidious

The lie started to unravel when the dates became too hard to remember. Was it March 16th or was it July 16th? Was it 1919 or 1915? Why did it have to become a lie? It isn't important now. Actually, it never was. He would have loved her no matter what.  But it leaves a question. Makes us wonder. What else was she lying about? Saying one thing, meaning another. About everything. So, when I painfully remember her thanking me at the end, I have to ask what she really meant. Why was she thanking me? Me, who had never gotten her the video she asked for. Who put off resizing her wedding band so that it could fit her arthritic fingers.  Who forgot or postponed one thing after another.  Until it was too late. She could not watch a video. Could not wear her ring.  Was it a kind of thanks, but no thanks? There is no more conversation possible. So, I will never get an answer to any of my questions. I can only ponder what  I meant to her. Part servant, part child. Serving her until the end. Faithfully, but a little mediocre.  In the final months, it was not a matter of what she could watch, but being watched over. The pain. The distance. I would have swallowed her food for her. Offered her my blood. Her pain became mine. But she was never mine. I was sidelined. Ever watchful. Ever hopeful. Always waiting.

My wife

Each time he says it, the bond gets severed a little more. Like a death from a thousand cuts, at first it seems superficial and then suddenly you understand how much damage has been done.  He has cast off the black button in favor of a silver rose pin. He points to it and asks me what I think. I don't understand what I am supposed to think, so I foolishly ask him what it means. He shakes his head in reproach and tells me that it is to honor his wife. Emphasis stressed. Just as I was thinking of how she turned her back on me in my one and only dream about her. Just in case I was thinking otherwise. Just in case. He sets my expectations. Nothing has changed. Not really. I am still there serving the purpose I have always served. Seeing everything. Serving everyone. His wife. Not my mother. I understand. I have always understood.

Without her, he is with her. She is the only thing that seems real to him. Her absence proves his presence, because he echoes her. It is not a contradiction. What is memory, after all? Waltzing without moving. Singing without opening your mouth. It is his only hope. His redemption. That he can stay in those memories, fastened only by a sterling silver rose.

The Old Man and the Sea

She was a mariner, although boat trips made her seasick. Standing by the shore as he set off on yet another trip, she would watch but never wave goodbye. Then turn back into herself once he had gone. He was a world traveler, who always thought his Penelope would be there, waiting for him. Until she wasn't.  He knows, but he still dreams. Even trips to the bathroom give him hope that it has all been a nightmare. That he'll return and there she will be, as before. His shore. His shelter.

His balance is gone. He walks but doesn't trust himself.  Travel presents itself, yet he hesitates. The journey has lost its meaning for him. The mariner cannot tell him what direction he should take. He never knew how she did it. Never asked. She held the key. Made sure the wind blew him to and from his destination. She was his courage. His determination. Without her, the wind only rustles his hair. The sails refuse to budge. The ship stays moored. He sinks.

Children and Art

She has taken up residence in him. Since he saw her as his queen, she sits on a little throne inside him. Unfortunately, he is frozen and doesn't realize that if he could thaw just the tiniest bit, he would start feeling again. That her love for him was so vast that it could inspire masterpiece after masterpiece, if only he could see. He secretly stashed her sweater set in his dresser. When no one is looking, he sticks his nose into the drawer and inhales deeply. This only causes pain. He needs to dive deeper but is too afraid, so he stays on the surface where the scent is unbearable in its reminder. He wants to kiss her on the nose but there isn't a nose to kiss. He wants to stay in the pain so that he can keep her alive. But she isn't alive. At least in the sense he wants her to be. If he can let go, he could swim in her. Rejoice. As it is, he drowns in his tears. Even though they are unshed.

It is time for the life boat. She knows it more than he does. While he is still able. There are fresh canvases to paint. Colors to discover. New scents ready to entice him. She promises to be there when he returns.

Heartbreak is inevitable, but do we have to sing it in a minor key?

It is simply time to let you go. You would not have wanted it any other way. But just because I let you go doesn't mean it will go smoothly. Just as you didn't want to leave, there are those that still don't want to believe that you are gone. So, I  am asking you to appear in their dreams to let them know that you have decided to move on. Explore other options now available to you. I am not asking you to beg, just drop subtle hints that we have mourned enough. That if we miss you, we are just to don some clothes, try on a piece of jewelry or break into song. Heartbreak is awaiting those who hold on too long. Who hold on and on until there is nothing to hold on to. Torn to shreds. Vanishing in their own hands. Falling over from leaning on something that no longer holds. We knew. Eye to eye. Heart to heart. I listened. I waited. I watched. I could hold on, too. But I will not. Such a confluence. Your life. Your death. What they don't realize is that the ending was only a moment in time. Not an anchor.

I sing out tonight. Maybe I've had too much wine, but I don't care who hears it. I am wearing your top. Putting on some earrings now. But, I am not seeing you in the mirror. I see a reckless spirit attempting to move ahead. Not a victim. No bitterness. Just the sweet caress of a mother's voice telling her child she is loved.  In a major key.

Even though the nightingale refuses to sing

She used to tell me that when you die, you die alone.Always. There was no alternative. It was just the way it was. For everybody. She said the same thing about birth. Entering and exiting was the loneliest. So, she brought her children up the very same way. On their own. Flying solo from the very start. A very useful education. Preparing us far in advance for the final chapter.  But she didn't die alone. She was caressed and cooed to. Serenaded. Shouted at. And, because we did not believe in her dictum, we could not leave her. Could not let her go. We circled her bed like wagons around a bonfire. One after another. And when it was over, we stood over her holding each other, so that in her death, we were not alone.

I listen for the nightingale to resume her song, but I am reluctant on all fronts. To move forward or to stay where I am? If I do nothing, I am filled with dread. If I stray and think of other things, what will become of her?

Now I know she is not the pink peony on my table. The scattered rose petals on the sidewalk. The signs are few. What she really meant was that when she died, we would be alone.
.

This grieving thing is for the birds

I am sick of black. Once my color of choice, it now has too much meaning. I will wear white. Swaddle myself in kindness.  I have nestled in her sweaters for too long. Tried on every dress. Worn her scarves as veils. Our coloring was different. Nothing really works. And it's not her clothing I am after. But it still holds her shape. Carries her scent.  I am looking for the other side, but getting through to it eludes me. Everything has shifted. There is only here and now. But even then, even there, that other side will only be a memory.  I sleep naked. When I awake, I find myself holding my sister's hand and setting off across an old and familiar city. Without clothes, we cover ourselves in grief.

In grief I discover myself, not her. It's a shock. I thought I would bathe myself in her image and emerge with her next to me.Instead, I only get a glimpse of her back in a dream. A peek.  An occasional memory flooding the place. But it's me that I mainly see. Pale, worn. As if I have been in battle. Almost transparent. You could blow me over. Dwindling from grief's relentless teeth holding me in place.

What now, Dean Dixon?

Black as night. Dreamy. You were her Bernstein. It was never Leonard, it was always Dean. Dean this, Dean that. This woman, that woman. A Vivian here, a Vivian there. And your mother? McClara? We were alway in the dark, she kept it that way intentionally. Never to know. Always to wonder. But she never told. That was the way she was. Saying one thing, meaning another. But even though you were always so vivid,  I doubted your existence.

I wander in search of my own Dean Dixon. It isn't black and white. Not anymore. I was always color blind. Were you? I see you with a violin. A bow. A poised body. Ready to engage. Serious. Intent. I wait for sound. Bow hitting string. Fingers moving up and down. Pizzicato. Imaginary music. No sound emerges.

I know I am not her, but I search for her in my body. My pores. My blue eyes searching out her brown. Dark hair,  blonde. Perhaps it is something in my limbs. In my shape casting a shadow that links us. It has to. Because if there is nothing there, my loneliness will never end. My heart will never stop searching.  Inside and outside, the attachment lingers. The skin grows thinner. The veins reveal the connection. Like her, I prefer light over dark. Inside over out.

He would kiss her words

Inside the dream he never has, a giant scrabble set. She sits at one side of the table, he at the other. Instead of tiles, the words project solidly out of her mouth. He watches her, and waits to catch the words. He would kiss them if he could. Would kiss her. But she is too far away. Too silent.

An old man tries to garden again. He has forgotten how to use color to his advantage. He scatters seeds everywhere, hoping for discovery. Hoping for a sign. A single flower rising up from the earth, waving at him.
Petals falling,one by one.

The urge to fight has left him. He is defenseless against his sorrow. No matter how hard he tries to cover up. Fill the void with an endless line of people. He isn't very good at change.

I always knew this would happen. That I would be left with him, not her. The pearl that was cultivated noticeably absent. The sand still rubbing pointlessly in the shell.

April was the cruellest month

He wasn't paying close enough attention when she told him it was over. She had cheated death so often, he thought she was immortal. He couldn't catch her when she fell to the floor. There was no saving possible.

Now, he is lost, but he does not know it. Maybe he never will. It exists outside of him, something vibrating so deeply that I can feel it in my depths. His fear of being alone chases him. He fights it off, but it leaches on to me. So much aching, it throbs. Shrill and persistent. He begs. His lips search for hers. Every day. But she is gone. She cannot hear him. Cannot feel him. Only I can. But I am not his beloved.  He drugs himself to sleep. He has no wish to dream.  He hums during the day to drown the silence. He remembers too much. It echoes. The moments of awakening. The smile before going silent.

He rids himself of reminders. Puts the television volume too high. Thinks he ,too, will cheat death if he just ignores it all. The black button has been discarded. Officially out of mourning. Without a purpose. What now in the merry month of May?

They say Kaddish is for the living

I am living, yet I cannot say the Kaddish. I had thought I might. But instead of devoting myself to 11 months of recitation, I prefer to write a love story. I will replace continuous prayer with continuous devotion. I will replace love of God with my love for her. I am not reinventing a religion, it is just that religion holds no place for me. Has no heart that beats with the same fervor. It does not understand me. Nor will I attempt to fit myself into a mold, when my grief is so shapeless. It spills over everything. It is solid and liquid and invisible. All at the same time.

Allen gave his Kaddish to Naomi. Mine is for Ruth. I don't think the Kaddish is for the living. I don't think the black button with its torn ribbon is an adequate representation of the condition of my heart. Each day reminds me of what I have lost. Soon, one month will become two. And at the end of 11 months, will it stop? The incantation will cease. The mourners will return to their lives. The scents will fade. Another round of Kaddish will begin for those with the voice and the inclination.

No longer certain of anything

Each day begins the same way. In disbelief. It cannot be. Yet I know that the voice I long to hear is no longer. I know the age worn  finger tips are somewhere else. The tissues tucked up sleeves and stuffed into pockets are vestiges to be discovered and tossed, not revered. She never believed in an afterlife. Never thought she had lived before.  Never thought she was once a princess or a pirate. Just a girl from Brooklyn.  And so it is that we face her death.Over and done. Once. In the manner she lived.  We, who were there, surrounding her, think otherwise. Perhaps she could not see beyond or perhaps she didn't want to frighten us. Still children. Her children. Believing that she had merely paused. Closed her eyes and become young once more. With her energy released from her body, we all inhaled and took her in. It may have been for the last time, but we do not believe that she is lost. The stages of grief do not apply. The life may no longer be lived but she scattered herself everywhere. Will I spend my life searching for the pieces?

Heavenly Brooklyn

Does everyone from Brooklyn end up in the same place? Do they drink egg creams together?  Is she that raven-haired beauty, once again? Brooklyn.  Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Would I be more blue in Brooklyn? Is it possible to be bluer? The French say avoir le cafard, which makes me even sadder and more uncomfortable. I can't even pronounce it properly.  Maybe if I had a cigarette hanging from one side of my mouth as I said, "J'ai le cafard" it might be more convincing. At least to me. As it stands, I just descend into it.

My week brings more flowers. Roses. Tulips. Irises. Birthday flowers. It hasn't even been a month, there isn't room to celebrate. And, what would I be celebrating? The first year without her? A day that lacks a wish in a voice that has sustained me for years?  That isn't something I wish to celebrate. You know, I really understand those old Italian widows in their black dresses. I never could before. So dowdy. So bleak. They never go out of mourning. Grieving just becomes another texture.

She seems to be populating everyone else's dreams. But not mine.  She has chosen a difference course. In the swirling minutes at the end, I took her in. Sheltered her. Touched the soft pads of her finger tips for the last time.  Pressed finger to finger. Taking what was left to me.

The leopard sits on my dresser

No sharpened claws. No fear of attack. An empty sweater set is all. Petite. Worn. Waiting to be discarded. Or, woven into a painting. Playfully worn as a hat. Patted to bring back a memory or two. This incessant focus on the objects won't last much longer. So, we breathe it in. Breathe it out. Hold hands. Say, " I love you" over and over again. It is all true. Especially to the touch. You can still feel it. But you can't make much sense of it. And all the I love yous won't still the pain. We cringe in her absence. Cry and then go painfully dry.   There is silence on the other end. A few signs, but nothing to hang my hat on. I was hoping for more. But then, I am afraid to let her into my dreams. What would she tell me?  Or, even worse. Maybe she wouldn't tell me. I hold her shoes in my hands. I am holding her feet. I keep hoping. Holding. It is what keeps me going. Knowing that in her darkest moment, she emerged as light. Her feet were left behind.

A ripened fig

Her voice keeps traveling. Stays with us. A voice with slight tremors. Vibrations we can still feel. Hedoooooo. Echoing. Richocheting deep. Allll my looooooooooove. Love. Deep. Heart. Pulsating. How it still keeps. It will always stay within. The voice mails that are circulating will run their course. The last gasp. The sigh. All the intentions. Everything will cease. And then? Like the ripe fig, splayed open to reveal the opulence of its fruit, we will be left with such riches. The question is, can each of us partake? Can we share this treasure?

An anger pervades. It is flying solo. Sneaking in and out. It has no place. That is what keeps it going. I want. I need. I am. Me. ME. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

No place for anger. No home for what it brings. We have come to the place of offering. We have come further than death. Death was just a passage on the journey.

In the deepest depth, the heart has no shape. The love looks no further. Take your fill. Breathe it in. The time is now and forever. Slowly. Melting away. Emptiness begs for completion. Shapes look for direction.  A kiss for lips.

Cold as Russia

In that vast open heart of his a cold has settled in. The valves narrow. Constrict. Writhe in loneliness. He walks around telling us that he has no one to talk to. Even as he talks to us. No one. It is that no one we are all missing. She has become the negative space in his presence. He cannot see her. If he did, he would sneak away to his room, shut the door and have the conversation of his life.   He would build a secret shrine to her. Light a candle. Reflect. Inhale her absence. She is watching over him. But he does not see her. Does not feel her. He only feels the onset of his pain. He wears his mourner's button.  A black stain. It plunges him into darkness. He cannot dream of love.

Beauty inside

I was beautiful inside. That's what she always said. Beautiful inside. But it's not what I wanted to hear. She was beautiful outside. She was smart. Shining. Talented. An example. I was always on the outside looking in at her. Kept out of that club. I knew it. She knew it. I was forced to look elsewhere. But I kept looking back over my shoulder. Looking for something that wasn't there. Something imagined. An inspiration. A key with the right to enter.

None of it matters anymore.  Everything merges. Only the center holds. She was right, of course.  Grasping her beauty in its depth was an inside job.

What remains

Grief sticks. It wakes me up at night. It defies me. No amount of alcohol helps. No sweetness dulls its bite. It is just there. Hanging out. Reminding me. Like the death that brought it on. It has finality written all over it. Telling me this is it. No matter how much I believed in another life beyond this one. Even more than one life. No, dear. This feels final. One dimensional. Over. I am at odds with my own mind. It will not bend to my desires. Let me see my own intentions.This doesn't mean that something good won't come of it. No, not at all. I predict operas. Paintings. Maybe, even a movie. A slant that leans towards creation. So many were left with unanswered questions waiting. Conversations never had.Exchanges and muffled laughter remembered. Grief now owns the entire lot. Like a greedy landowner. Sweeping everything in. Owning it all. The scream at 3 am. The dreams. The fading scents in the closet. Turning inward. Turning outwards. Twisting. Twisting. Diving like a corkscrew into my depths.

Release

What did she mean, when she talked about release? It was after telling us that the festival was over. Her festival. Her life. Soon after, she died.  It is all so final and I know that it is over. And yet, if she called me up whispering, "Sweetheart", I wouldn't wonder.  Wouldn't be surprised. Hers was a life with staying power. With constant messages.  So much subtext, that it was the only content. I have her reading glasses on my dining room table. The book she never finished. Her clothes are now in my closet. Her jewelry tucked safely away. How can I give away these parts of her? The shell with the label, "Clothes Horse"- making fun of her or me? The silence that comes with death, co-mingled with her scent, invades my bedroom now. She is here and everywhere. She is nowhere.

Trying to find a middle ground, I keep falling lower and lower. Nothing holds. Everyone sends me flowers. But it is only a matter of time and those flowers will wilt and die, as well. The life they once lived still visible. Barely. And then I will be left to rinse out the vase. Throw away the stems. Once again, left with the void of what was once living.

It's a choice now. Run away or stay. Breathe in the scent that won't last much longer. Finger the silk and cashmere. Say goodbye. It is tempting to run. To leave everything behind. But I will not. In her death, I, too, was transformed. And after all, when she talked of release, maybe she was pointing the way for me.

Where are you?

You were with us at the very moment you died. But by the time your funeral rolled around, I knew you were somewhere else. But, where? Your beauty never left you. The strength written on your face. In death, you revealed yourself. A warrior. And then you left. Did you start another battle? Did you save those in need?Are you dancing on a stage? Have you hidden yourself in a Degas or Renoir? Are you fiddling with your friends?  Nestled in a page of a novel?

It's just that I would like to know where you are. So that I know you are protected and safe. I wanted to cradle you in my arms as you lay dying. Mother to you, my own mother. It always happens that way when we are lucky enough. And we were lucky.

Will you send me a sign? It can be mundane. A copper penny. The moon beam catching my face at an odd moment. A parade of snails at my feet. Just let me know. And if you don't. If you have left us behind to find our own way now, I will understand.

In the transformation from old to young, from mother to daughter, you became the maidele once again. Tired of being the North Star for everyone who passed your way. The path no longer worn. I don your clothes. I comfort the bereaved. The circle completes itself.

Not yet time for Kaddish

The poems keep flooding in. Keats, Auden, Yeats, Pushkin. And yes, the Kaddish. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. Yis gadal. He was my North, my South. We stopped all the clocks and it wasn't time. She came back. She cannot stop fighting. We surround her, urging her on. Oedipus thinks he has the key, it's ketchup. Oh, the silliness of the loved ones. It is the genius who realizes that her life force is dependent on high fructose corn syrup. How could we doubt him?

She doesn't want to leave. Yet, she wants to leave.  Although her minuet is interrupted, it isn't dancing so much anymore that matters. She must go. She is whole. He is not. He cannot leave her side for a minute. She is only present for a minute. Always elegant. Literate. Precise. The leaving is witness to shouting, needles pricking, monitors beeping. Oedipus takes movies. He is crass but his worship is sincere. He thought this love would last forever and he won't take no for an answer.

Gregory Corso, where were you when I needed you?

As an original product of magical realists, it is clear why it never occurred to me. Prepare for a major event in my life beforehand? Why? The Gods would concoct, the elements would align and voila! Life.   And, honestly, it has worked out that way. No intentional linear paths for me. Decade after decade. Events. Catastrophe. Ruin. At 50, I decided it was time to wise up. But, I still had not discovered the truth.So, I decided to start reading the obituaries. Remember, I always do things backwards. It must be the influence of Hebrew on my life. Anyway, after years of reading about dead people, I decided to let a little joy into my life and started reading wedding notices. Looking for what they were doing right. Looking for their joy in the hope  I might at least find the spark of my own. Looking for process of any sort. And then, it clicked. Gregory Corso. A name I knew but had forgotten. Poems known and then unknown. How had I missed it?
               
                 O but what about love? I forget love
                 not that I am incapable of love
                 It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes...


Marriages. Deaths.  A vardo here and there. Empty shoes, here I come!!

My cone of silence

How much easier to have a vow of chastity. Poverty. Obedience. A simple vanilla. Rules to follow. A higher being to take orders from.  But, no. I come with vibrant reds and purples. Convoluted questions. Confusion. Contradiction. Questions. Questions. Questions.Always questioning. Long beards. Children flying off into skies I've never seen. Thinking things I dare not admit. Friends slipping away. Sideways glances from strangers that make more sense than a logical argument. Staring into a jagged face that defies meaning. If I try to retreat, I am met with disappointment. Disillusion. Recriminations even. Where do you think you are going? It's here now.Be in our muck. No matter how much it isn't yours.No matter. Even if it doesn't matter to me. Getting stuck in something that doesn't even belong to me.  How do I invert the photo? Take that cone of silence and slip it over my head. Wrap me in an understanding with myself. And only myself.

Those Jewish secrets

As a Jew, it is never, "don't ask, don't tell." It's more like, " I'll tell you, but don't you dare tell anyone else." I was sworn into the secret club from earliest childhood, and this secret swearing is not restricted to sexual preference. My mother swore me in again as a young woman when she told me that as a child, she had to sleep in her parents’ bed. She was witness to all their lovemaking.  But she didn't tell me how she felt. She just handed me the package and said, "But, sweetheart, whatever you do- don’t tell anyone."

So, when yet another friend calls to reveal dark secrets, I am not surprised.   I am holding on for dear life and now I am being led to the abyss. Oy vey. Whose house is this, I think I know- his house is in the village though. Where is Robert Frost when I need him? I love my friend and our friendship even more, so I prepare for a very long story. I am being held to strict confidence- I cannot tell anyone about this- because she has been told not to tell anyone- so, why is she telling me? Because this is the club we belong to.  But, I can’t hold onto secrets anymore. Those secrets are a way of not seeing. At least for the person revealing. If they hand it off to you, is it gone? I refuse to be locked  into the secret dance where there is no exit. And for someone like me, if there is no exit, I need a paper bag to start breathing into. Now, this story is about death. That’s all I will tell. But I can’t afford to fall into the hole the story promises to create- I am devoted to living. But it takes me to my own life. All my worries. Stop worrying. Start living. You know that Dale Carnegie wasn’t Jewish. If he were, he would have told you to get rid of your secrets and start making other people worry. That's the way to start living.

No Fish in the Sky

Old Chinese proverb. For my entire life, I was looking for fish in the sky. Never content to believe one would never appear, I just kept hoping. Dreaming even. Keeping watch day and night, ever vigilant, just in case I might miss the sighting. All that time, I was looking but not seeing. Looking up.  Old Chinese proverb continues, no birds in the sea.  Not fishes and loaves, fish and birds in places they should not be, according to the natural order of things. But, if you are creating your own version of that natural order, then why not? Why not expect to see fish leaping above your head and birds out of sight and beyond your grasp in blue waters? What was it that I wanted to see? I never knew. I only knew that it was out there and I had to find it. Hard to do if you don't know what it is, but I never asked that question. Never let myself. Is it too late? I wonder about that. Wonder if that happiness that I am sure will appear once I find what I am looking for will still be waiting. Standing on a street corner arms open for the embrace.  Asking to be tucked into the folds of a cape three times too large and transporting me to the other side of the street where I have been waiting for years.

The Chorus Line Sings a Little Ditty

My son always worries that when I tell him I love him, I will say, "I love you, but..." I love you. But. He doesn't know that my love has no qualifiers. There are no buts. It is deep and dark and endless. It has swallowed me whole several times. When he leaves, the scars form back on themselves, thick and  deep crimson, waiting for his return. It's my own life that has 'buts' written all over it. I thought if I took care of them they would then take care of me. I thought if I gave them my life, they would embroider it and hand it back richer. I thought if I laid myself down and protected them, they would then protect me. It hasn't happened like that. Never. That 'but' has defined me and finds me even now. I am looking for love, acknowledgement, even a handshake or a wink of an eye. Instead, I get a thank you, as though I am a business associate or a handmaiden. Not an object of love. A voice tells me to do more, it isn't enough. Run harder. Try harder. Do. Do. But, don't be. That wouldn't do.  No end in sight. Just a slow trickle of very old tears shedding little light on the subject.