Something, Anything
I’d very much like to write something. Anything.
In the space of seven weeks, I’ve watched the two women who inspired or encouraged me more than any other to write something, anything, lowered into the ground.
One, MoMo, was ashes, a hole dug into the cold earth with a post hole digger, her ritual passing from above to below accompanied by no frills, only the beautiful stories told by the family – thank you for saving us, we should have given you that beer. I said nothing, simply kept my hand from shaking too much, holding my right with my left hand, the hand adorned with the turquoise ring she made on my middle finger, a testament to the lesson she left me: make what you make and fuck ‘em if they don’t like it. There were no words of God, words that I find no comfort in anyhow. That was December 8, 2012. It was the only time I saw my dad cry. My mom said she saw him cry on December 8, 1980, the day John Lennon was murdered. When all was said and done, I walked to my car and drove from the cemetery. I got lost, driving around gravestones for awhile until I found my route of escape from the maze of the deceased minotaurs. Then I went home, changed clothes, and photographed a wedding. The reception was nice, though I’m relieved I didn’t drink from the tiny champagne bottles. They were bubbles.
The other, MeMe, was buried in a beautiful casket with a cloth sunburst covering her, a picture of Orson and a lock of his hair wrapped in toilet paper (family joke) resting in her navy-blue polka dotted arms, crossed at the wrists, right over left. She went into hospital a little over two weeks ago. She died on Sunday, on what would have been the 62nd wedding anniversary of MoMo and Bubba. She was buried yesterday. There was a procession from the funeral home. I got to run red lights legally, with police lights in front of me, rather than in back. I wore the very same ring as on December 8, and was slightly concerned when my hand got stuck in the coffin’s swing bars as we led it out of the hearse to the green “red” carpet and the pulleys and levers in the grey tent. There were long-winded words of God spoken, none of which gave me comfort, but perhaps gave others comfort. The funeral director said a few words. Those were comforting. There was a family get-together at BobBob’s house. I walked over to the park, the same park where MeMe had walked Orson on “their walks” every time we visited. Except those last few times. I walked there knowing he had given her happiness in the last year and a half of her life, happiness that I’m not sure I was able to give. I sat on the benches and looked out over the baseball field. I counted breaths, one through ten. And then I returned to the house and was the closest approximation to a family man as I could be. That she would want me to be. On April 9, there will be a memorial service. April 9, 2013 will be BobBob and MeMe’s anniversary. Maybe I’ll say words then.
Death is that perpetually expected unexpectation. It doesn’t matter if you have years to prepare, or weeks to prepare. It doesn’t matter when that “funny feeling” shows up, that gutpunch that says “I will never see these people again.” For those who take comfort in the belief that they will see their loved ones again, it is only the beginning of a journey to eternity. For those, like me, who take no comfort in that, rather in the living, breathing remnants of memory, of smells of creamed chicken and chocolate cake, of bacon cooked just right, of Trident chewing gum and acetylene torches, they are forever relegated to those living organisms of memory, to the idealized version of who they were. They cease to be MoMo and MeMe the people, named by a little kid with curly hair and the ability to utter only monosyllabic combinatorial cuteness and become that which they truly were: my grandmothers, beautiful and wonderful, inspiring and encouraging. Now they are immortal. They are stories.
I will take the lessons you gave me, be it cooking or living or writing or loving, and keep doing what you have inspired and encourage me to do: write something, anything.
I love you both dearly.
