So you are in my thoughts a lot, most of the time really.
And for some reason, your passing is calling to mind the other beings I have loved and lost. My week has been tinged with thoughts of them.
When I was a little girl, our neighbor Red Miller died. He was an kind old man who lived a couple houses up from us, and let all the neighborhood kids sled down the big hill in his front yard when it snowed. As a hobby he carved wooden ducks and painted them; Mom still has one or two at home. He was the first person I loved who died, and I remember that I used to sit up in bed, looking out the open window that was right next to my bed at the stars (it must have been summer) and thinking about him. Mom found me crying one night and I blurted out "I miss Red." We were so lucky to know him.
Other followed, of course. Such is the only possibly trajectory of life. Mom's father when I was in high school, your father when I was in college, and unexpectedly, Aunt Ruth (my mom's aunt) who was a sweet, gentle person. She used to take Amy and I to feed the ducks on Thanksgiving and Christmas at the pond near her house in Massapequa. Mom's Mom just passed away a few years ago.
And then we come to all the animals, many of whom died when I moved to California. Foxy, Zoe, Midnite, Cali, Tootsie. The whole pack, diminished one by one.
For many of these deaths, I was coping with my own health problems, and I am not sure I mourned them all properly. It helped, at the time, that I was completely obsessed with my first pet I got on my own, my crazy cat Buster, who is still hanging in there at 16.
I find that I am grieving for everyone now, along with you. I suppose for myself, too.
It is snowing today and Idriss and I took a long walk, as we often do. The harbor is partially frozen, and huge chunks of ice and snow are floating on the water and massing on the beach. The tones are blurry blues and greys, and it is difficult to separate the Sound from the horizon line.
On our way home, we stopped by the library. While standing outside, I gazed at the grand old Blue Atlas Cedar right outside. I think I pointed it out to you before when we walked to the park in Sea Cliff, because you love these trees, too (although the one in your backyard is still kind of scrawny). This tree is the largest of its kind I have ever seen, and the green blue of the needles melded with the grey in the air and the white of the snowflakes to become a painter's vision.
As the snowflakes swirled around the tree, I imagined you and Aunt Ruth and Red Miller and my grandparents and all of our beloved pets as snowflakes, each one lovely in its own way, but fleeting, soaring gracefully through this earth and my life.
The beauty of the scene called to mind the ending of one of my favorite stories, the "The Dead" by James Joyce. In his own words, far more eloquent than mine:
"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
I love you so much, Dad.
M
No comments:
Post a Comment