A few weeks in the rearview, I asked the Elder Boy how school had been that day. After the initial, 'I don't know' I got a story about some kid's Mom coming to the library for storytime and reading to his class. E thought that was super cool. But what was cooler, once storytime was over, the librarian, Mrs. Nowacki, gave the kid a Lego Bookmark and a Lego Magazine.
"Boy," I said, "I signed up to read to your class at meet the teacher night. I'm reading on October 23."
To say the Boy was excited would be a gross understatement. For the past two weeks he has continually asked, "Daddy, how many days? One or two."
This past Thursday, while getting ready for bath, E again asked, "Daddy, how many days? One or two?"
I'll be honest, at that point, I wasn't really paying attention to his question. I was busy looking at myself in the bathroom mirror for signs of hair loss. Not that it mattered, he didn't need my answer, he was already talking about the kickass Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine that he was going to get from Mrs. Nowacki. I figured he'd tell me about it at least three times during his bath, which is why I was taken by surprise when he said, "Dad, you're just going to read?"
"Of course I'm going to read. What else would I do? That is why I'm going." I said.
"Dad," he said, "just read."
"Ethan," I said, "I don't understand, (I did of course) that's why I'm going. To read."
Frustrated by my denseness he commanded, "DAD. JUST READ!!!"
Calmly I said, "That is what I'm going to do, just read."
Silence.
The Elder Boy stared at me, trying to discern if I was messing with him or just dense. Finally he pleaded, "Dad, just read. No jokes. Ok?"
Sweetness.
The next night while we were doing the night night book thing I asked, "E, what are we going to bring to storytime at your school? What should I read on Tuedsay?"
I knew what he wanted me to read. He had selected it over a week ago. One book was a non-fiction whale book. I liked it. The second book though, I didn't like. It was this big pop-up type book with very small print. It would be hard for me to read and hold up in front of 40+ kids, so I said, "We should read Walter the Farting Dog."
Silence.
"It will be funny." I said.
Silence.
"The kids will love it." I said.
Silence.
I went back to reading the Star Wars book for nigh night time. Toward the end, E said, "Dad."
"Yes." I answered.
"You can't read Walter the Farting Dog." He said. "Ok?"
Only because it was Friday night, and he needed to go to bed, because I needed to go watch TV and drink beer I said, "Ok Bub. We'll pick something else to read. Don't worry. We'll find something."
We picked Tony's Hard Work Day.
October 23 started cold in Dallas, so cold that before school the Boy(s) and I were huddled together on the sofa watching Fairly Odd Parents. "E," I said, "Today is storytime. I'm reading at your school this afternoon."
Silence.
"So," I continued, "I"m bringing the whale book and Walter the Farting Dog."
"Dad," E said, "We're reading the whale book and Tony's Hard Work Day. You can't read Walter."
"Why?" I asked.
"DAD!" He screamed.
"Why not? It will be funny. Are you afraid Mrs. Nowacki will be mad at us if we read Walter?" I asked.
He gave me a stern look as if the answer was obvious.
"What's she going to do," I asked, "put me on red?"
Silence. (Sweet Mother of all that is good, I said it: Red.)
You see Dear Reader, E's class has a behavior chart that is akin to the Homeland Security Advisory System (I guess Bush and all his cronies really did Learn all they needed to know in Kindergarten.) The Elder Boy is obsessed with that chart and staying on green. So much so, one day, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and got mixed up in some lunch room shenanigans. The lunch lady in a zero tolerance fit placed everyone in the area on yellow. E freaked. So much so, that Mrs. Green (seriously, that's her name, how awesome is that) gave E the opportunity to earn back his green status before the day ended.
Red is bad. Very bad. You go to the principal if you get on red.
"Dad." He said, gravely shaking his head, "You don't want to be on red."
"Why?" I said.
"Red is bad." He said.
"Come on E, Walter will be funny." I said.
"Mrs. Nowacki won't like it." He said.
"What is she going to do, I'm an adult." I said.
"Dad, she's a teacher." He said
Silence.
Yesterday afternoon I was the guest star parent at storytime at E's school. I read in front of 44 kids. Mrs. Nowacki set me up in a chair, next to a globe and a large atlas while all the kids sat on a large carpet in front of me. Many of them fought to get in front, close to me. Not E. He sat in the very back of the group. He looked nervous.
Once everyone was in their place, Mrs. Nowacki asked E to come up and introduce me to the group, and tell them what we read at home. What we liked. Nervously, E said, "This is...Dad."
Then, silence.
After a few seconds I realized E wasn't going to say anything else, so I jumped in and said, "We dig Star Wars at Casa Tinsley. Do you cats like Star Wars?"
The kids went apeshit.
Later My Lovely Bride, who has an early education degree said, "You really shouldn't ask two kindergarten classes a question like that. They are too young. They'll all talk at once. They don't do very good at question and answers in a large group at that age."
No shit. Thanks for letting me know, Dear.
Mrs. Nowacki and the two teachers saved me though, by clapping their hands and having the kids do this weird repeat chant thing while they all put their hands above their heads. For the rest of my show, whenever I'd get them stirred up (which was often,) that's how the adults brought back order. They would have the kids do weird little chant things while they did stuff with their hands. They did it in unison too. It was bizarre, and funny to me. Reminded me of a cult, which made me think of a particularly bad (read good) joke that I should tell the group.
Only, I didn't. I was an adult.
An adult afraid of being put on red.
Storytime was the last thing of the day so I took E home from school. Since we live so close (we usually walk the block to and fro) I decided to let him ride up front in the passenger seat. After I had him strapped in and secure, with his Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine in his lap, I said, "So, Boy, How did I do?"
I figured my question would be be met with silence. He was engrossed with his prized Lego Bookmark and Lego Magazine. But it wasn't. Instead he looked over, with what I think was actually pride and said, "Good," giving me this half smile look that reminded me of his Granny, "you did good Dad."
"At least I didn't get put on red." I said as I started the car and drove us home.
Until I BLOG again...A candy bar, a falling star, or a reading of doctor seuss.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
All This Time
Wednesday morning Ruby and I were walking Ethan to school, when he asked, "Daddy, is it one or two?"
"I don't know what you mean." I said.
"Is it ONE or TWO," he said.
"One or two what," I said.
"You don't understand." He said, as Ruby dropped on her haunches to take a crap.
"No, I don't. What are you talking about?" I said.
"Until you read," He said, as Ruby did her I just took a good shit dance.
"Oh. You mean when I read at your school, in front of your class, in the library." I said.
"Yes." He said, beat down by my denseness.
"Next week." I said, as I picked Ruby's shit out of a neighbor's yard.
He sighed, exasperated, "How many days? One or two."
"Five. Today is Wednesday, then we have Thursday, Friday and then Monday and Tuesday of next week. I do it next Tuesday." I said.
"Oh," he said, "Is that a long time?"
I laughed. "It's a week, Boy. It depends. Time is weird. When you are young, things take a long time. Time moves slow, or seems to move slow. It doesn't, but you only realize that when you get older."
"Oh." He said, not quite satisfied with my answer.
"Unless, something sucks, then it still takes a long time." I added.
He nodded his head, gave me a half smile, and turned and headed up the sidewalk toward school.
I paused in my neighbor's yard, a bag full of Ruby's shit in my hand. Fuck me. Tomorrow is October 18. One year. That is a long time.
"Hey Ethan," I said.
"Yeah?" He said.
"Tomorrow is..." I stopped short of saying what I was thinking. He didn't need to think about my shit.
"What?" He said.
"Tomorrow night is family night, we don't have to do anything." I said.
"I know Dad." He said.
"I know you know," I said, as Ruby and I jogged up the sidewalk to catch him.
Until I BLOG again...Endlessly like a silent tear.
"I don't know what you mean." I said.
"Is it ONE or TWO," he said.
"One or two what," I said.
"You don't understand." He said, as Ruby dropped on her haunches to take a crap.
"No, I don't. What are you talking about?" I said.
"Until you read," He said, as Ruby did her I just took a good shit dance.
"Oh. You mean when I read at your school, in front of your class, in the library." I said.
"Yes." He said, beat down by my denseness.
"Next week." I said, as I picked Ruby's shit out of a neighbor's yard.
He sighed, exasperated, "How many days? One or two."
"Five. Today is Wednesday, then we have Thursday, Friday and then Monday and Tuesday of next week. I do it next Tuesday." I said.
"Oh," he said, "Is that a long time?"
I laughed. "It's a week, Boy. It depends. Time is weird. When you are young, things take a long time. Time moves slow, or seems to move slow. It doesn't, but you only realize that when you get older."
"Oh." He said, not quite satisfied with my answer.
"Unless, something sucks, then it still takes a long time." I added.
He nodded his head, gave me a half smile, and turned and headed up the sidewalk toward school.
I paused in my neighbor's yard, a bag full of Ruby's shit in my hand. Fuck me. Tomorrow is October 18. One year. That is a long time.
"Hey Ethan," I said.
"Yeah?" He said.
"Tomorrow is..." I stopped short of saying what I was thinking. He didn't need to think about my shit.
"What?" He said.
"Tomorrow night is family night, we don't have to do anything." I said.
"I know Dad." He said.
"I know you know," I said, as Ruby and I jogged up the sidewalk to catch him.
Until I BLOG again...Endlessly like a silent tear.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Walk On
Déjà vu kicked me in the nuts, hard, the third week in September. I was planning a solo Galveston trip, to spend some time by myself, for myself, something I had not done since Mom died last October. With the one year anniversary looming on the horizon (as well as October 10, which was (is?) her birthday,) I wanted my own brand of closure. To get my head right before October began, and to say good-bye in my own strange way.
My way was going to involve fire. I was seriously ready steady go, having gathered up a bag of shit --- small mementos, photos and notes that meant something to me. The plan was to burn (or destroy) these things on the beach in Galveston on the night of September 18. I was then going to cast them into the sea. My goofy ceremony should have happened on the 11th month anniversary of her death. It didn't though. Life happened instead.
Which is why I found myself in Houston instead of Galveston on September 18. I had arrived on September 16 to help my Dad. He couldn't walk. Spinal stenosis was the diagnosis, with three weeks laid up in his house. He had tried to rehab his back, but that is tough when you are a widower, and your only child lives 250 miles away. A bad situation made worse by the fact that his only hope of walking was spinal surgery that was hastily scheduled because of his pain for September 18. Fuck me.
The day before his surgery, I was helping him run errands when I asked, "Dad, does it bother you, that you are having major spinal surgery on the 18th of September?!?!" It didn't, he said, which was a good thing, because a few minutes later, a black cat ran across our path. Dad didn't even notice.
I did of course, and it filled me with dread. I didn't want to be there in the first place. Sure, I wanted to help my Dad. I love my Dad. But I had other plans for that week, and times like these, well being an only child sucks.
That anger though, was really just a cover. Something to keep me warm, because I was nervous about having to stay in that fucking house by myself when Dad was in the hospital. In fact, and a testament to how much can change in a year, The Elder Boy and I discussed my fear the night before I left. We were reading books before he went to sleep, when he asked, with a sense of empathy that made me proud, "Daddy...are you scared?"
"Yeah."
"Really?!?"
"Sure. Everyone gets scared, Bub. Even Daddy. I don't want to go. Not because I don't want to help Pops, I do, which is why I'm going even though I don't want to go...that's what is important. Even though I'm scared, or nervous, I'm still doing what I need to do."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are your nervous."
"Well...I guess of the unknown. Seeing how bad Pops really is with my own eyes. And...I don't want to stay in that house, by myself...thinking about that freaks Daddy out. And then, I don't like to be away from you, or Wy Wy, or Mommy. I miss you guys when I'm away, and I don't know how long I'll be gone."
That dread turned into reality on September 18, after a brutally long day at the hospital. There I was in Houston, in that fucking house alone, instead of on a Galveston beach burning shit, playing déjà Stu in my monkey brain. A year before, nearly to the day, I had been in Houston with my Grandma. Only on that trip, Mom was the one who couldn't walk. The damn dog died too. It was the last time my Grandma saw her daughter alive (which she wasted.)
I ended up sleeping on the sofa in front of the TV that first night. The noise helped some, still I couldn't forget how the year before, I had shaved, what was left of Mom's hair, as she sat on the same sofa. How that sofa was pushed away, to make room for the hospital bed. I watched her die in that bed. In that spot. It was creepy, being alone there.
In fact, the day before Dad's surgery while cleaning up, I noticed that all the pictures of Mom in the house were turned over, face down. Was it her ghost? It wasn't of course, it was something far more frightening. It was Dad.
The thought of my Dad trapped there, for weeks, hobbling around on crutches, unable to walk well enough to leave, with the photos, the memories, sucked. Hard. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be trapped in that fucking house as the days counted down to so many painful anniversaries. I had wanted to deal with all of that by going to Galveston, but Dad didn't have that option. That made me sad. Which is why, then and there, I decided to make the most of my time alone. I was going to look for Mom's necklace and charm.
You see Dear Reader, the one thing of Mom's that I truly wanted, more than anything else, after she died, was this old gold necklace and charm. It had originally belonged to Juan Carols Munoz. Juan had been an AFS exchange student from Colombia who lived with us in 1983-84. Juan's original host family, didn't work. I think they signed up for an AFS student to help their son be more popular which is a sad reason to invite someone into your home and be part of the family. Which is what Juan was to us, part of our family. After 9 months, in June 1984, when it was time for Juan to return home, he removed his gold necklace and charm (which had his name on one side, and a Cross on the other) and gave it to Mom. She wore it the rest of her life. Over 20 years. At some point, when she got really sick, she removed it.
After Mom died, Dad told me to take anything of Mom's that I wanted. I asked for that necklace. Only, we couldn't find it. Dad searched for months. Nothing. Finally, last December, with the help of My Lovely Bride, we cleaned out all of Mom's things before her memorial. I was sure we'd find it when we cleared out the back bedroom, which was the guest room of their house, and where Mom kept most of her stuff. We didn't. I'd resigned myself to the fact that the necklace like Mom, and Juan, were gone.
I hadn't seen or spoken to Juan since the summer of 1988. He had visited us while attending Boston College. Shortly after, Juan went back to Cali,Colombia and Mom and Dad moved to El Paso, Texas. I was in Norman, Oklahoma. Mom and Dad moved three more times in the next four years, and at some point, Juan's contact info was lost. Juan of course, had no idea that we had moved from Sand Springs, and only had that contact info. I've searched for Juan over the years. When the internet came into my life, and email, I thought for sure that I'd be able to find him. I didn't. I trolled websites, like classmates.com, the AFS site, bulletin boards, Colombian directories, emailed strangers with the same last name --- you name it, I tried it. I even enlisted the help of a co-worker who hailed from Medellín, Colombia. Nothing. Juan was as lost to me, as his old necklace.
I awoke early the morning after Dad's surgery, and my first restless night alone in that fucking house. Not wanting to be there, I decided to go work out at 24 Hour Fitness. To do this, I needed to change my clothes, so I went to the back bedroom which had all of my stuff. The back bedroom is odd, a combination guest bedroom and dumping ground for Dad to put shit he didn't want to deal with since he never went into that room. Most of things in that room, the furniture and photos are touchstones from my youth. The only things that represent home for me in that fucking house.
After I dressed, I stood for awhile, spaced out, having only slept four hours the night before. At some point, I mindlessly walked over to an old credenza, to look at a picture of myself with an iguana. On the same shelf, was a small crystal golf ball tchotcke, a pair of Mom's clip-on sunglasses, and a broken Timex watch. I picked the watch up, and looked at the band. Then, for reasons I can't begin to explain, I dropped the watch, and grabbed the upper part of the golf ball tchotcke, which unbeknown to me was the top. Smiling, because I knew what I was going to find, I opened it up and found a safety pin, paper clip and the gold necklace and charm.
Strange, after I found the necklace, I didn't really freak out and celebrate. I didn't even put it on and wear it.
Instead, I put it on a table in that back bedroom which is where it stayed. A few days later, on a friend's advice, and after getting Dad's permission, I took all the photos of my Mom and shut them up in the closet of that back bedroom. Even though I know, in my heart, it was the right thing to do, it felt strange doing it. Stranger still, when I packed my things to leave, I ended up putting the necklace, unceremoniously in a pill container. Which is where it stayed for the next week.
I wasn't ready to wear the necklace. I know that sounds gay, but it is true. I actually felt like I lost something, not found it. It was an odd feeling, and since deep introspection ain't that easy at my pad, especially after being gone for a week, I decided to let it go, and not worry about it. Instead, for the next week, I fell back into the comfort of my day to day routine.
Only, the feeling didn't go away. If anything, it grew stronger. I eventually came to the conclusion that what I felt was different. Like I had walked around a corner or through a door. I'm not even sure what that means, because it is more a feeling than something concrete --- but the thing is, it doesn't really matter. What does matter is that on Sunday, September 30, after being home a week, I decided it was as good of a time as any to put the necklace on and start wearing it.
The very next day, I received an email from Juan.
Since then, Juan and I have traded emails and photos, and caught up with each other lives the past 20 years. In my first reply, the one where I told him Mom died, I told the strange story of the necklace.
Juan's reply:
"So you got your necklace story, I've got mine. I recently went to a family reunion, and we were drinking, and I got very sentimental. I was telling Pili (his wife) that I felt very bad because I couldn't find you, that I didn't know about you, and I started to cry. Mattias and Miranda (his children, who are 4 and 7) see me, and ask me why I'm crying and so upset, so I sat them down and told them all about you, and the year I lived in Sand Springs. The next day Mattias was walking around saying, STTUUAARRRRRRT, he was practicing the 'RRR' sound. Last Saturday, before he went to soccer practice, he came up to me and said, 'Papi, why don't you just call STTUUAARRRRRRT', so today I was thinking about it all day long, And I decided to go to this website and I saw your message with your contact info. Life moves and uses different channels. Bueno hermano mio, no te imaginas lo feliz que estoy de haberte encontrado nuevamente. Un gradne abrazo para Carter..."
I've had some bizarre shit happen this past year. Synchronistic things. Stuff that makes you appreciate how funny life truly is.
It's like Douglas Adams said: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."
I thought I'd find closure on the beach in Galveston the third week in September. Instead, I found it in that fucking house in Houston. Life is funny.
Until I BLOG again...Leave it behind.
My way was going to involve fire. I was seriously ready steady go, having gathered up a bag of shit --- small mementos, photos and notes that meant something to me. The plan was to burn (or destroy) these things on the beach in Galveston on the night of September 18. I was then going to cast them into the sea. My goofy ceremony should have happened on the 11th month anniversary of her death. It didn't though. Life happened instead.
Which is why I found myself in Houston instead of Galveston on September 18. I had arrived on September 16 to help my Dad. He couldn't walk. Spinal stenosis was the diagnosis, with three weeks laid up in his house. He had tried to rehab his back, but that is tough when you are a widower, and your only child lives 250 miles away. A bad situation made worse by the fact that his only hope of walking was spinal surgery that was hastily scheduled because of his pain for September 18. Fuck me.
The day before his surgery, I was helping him run errands when I asked, "Dad, does it bother you, that you are having major spinal surgery on the 18th of September?!?!" It didn't, he said, which was a good thing, because a few minutes later, a black cat ran across our path. Dad didn't even notice.
I did of course, and it filled me with dread. I didn't want to be there in the first place. Sure, I wanted to help my Dad. I love my Dad. But I had other plans for that week, and times like these, well being an only child sucks.
That anger though, was really just a cover. Something to keep me warm, because I was nervous about having to stay in that fucking house by myself when Dad was in the hospital. In fact, and a testament to how much can change in a year, The Elder Boy and I discussed my fear the night before I left. We were reading books before he went to sleep, when he asked, with a sense of empathy that made me proud, "Daddy...are you scared?"
"Yeah."
"Really?!?"
"Sure. Everyone gets scared, Bub. Even Daddy. I don't want to go. Not because I don't want to help Pops, I do, which is why I'm going even though I don't want to go...that's what is important. Even though I'm scared, or nervous, I'm still doing what I need to do."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are your nervous."
"Well...I guess of the unknown. Seeing how bad Pops really is with my own eyes. And...I don't want to stay in that house, by myself...thinking about that freaks Daddy out. And then, I don't like to be away from you, or Wy Wy, or Mommy. I miss you guys when I'm away, and I don't know how long I'll be gone."
That dread turned into reality on September 18, after a brutally long day at the hospital. There I was in Houston, in that fucking house alone, instead of on a Galveston beach burning shit, playing déjà Stu in my monkey brain. A year before, nearly to the day, I had been in Houston with my Grandma. Only on that trip, Mom was the one who couldn't walk. The damn dog died too. It was the last time my Grandma saw her daughter alive (which she wasted.)
I ended up sleeping on the sofa in front of the TV that first night. The noise helped some, still I couldn't forget how the year before, I had shaved, what was left of Mom's hair, as she sat on the same sofa. How that sofa was pushed away, to make room for the hospital bed. I watched her die in that bed. In that spot. It was creepy, being alone there.
In fact, the day before Dad's surgery while cleaning up, I noticed that all the pictures of Mom in the house were turned over, face down. Was it her ghost? It wasn't of course, it was something far more frightening. It was Dad.
The thought of my Dad trapped there, for weeks, hobbling around on crutches, unable to walk well enough to leave, with the photos, the memories, sucked. Hard. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be trapped in that fucking house as the days counted down to so many painful anniversaries. I had wanted to deal with all of that by going to Galveston, but Dad didn't have that option. That made me sad. Which is why, then and there, I decided to make the most of my time alone. I was going to look for Mom's necklace and charm.
You see Dear Reader, the one thing of Mom's that I truly wanted, more than anything else, after she died, was this old gold necklace and charm. It had originally belonged to Juan Carols Munoz. Juan had been an AFS exchange student from Colombia who lived with us in 1983-84. Juan's original host family, didn't work. I think they signed up for an AFS student to help their son be more popular which is a sad reason to invite someone into your home and be part of the family. Which is what Juan was to us, part of our family. After 9 months, in June 1984, when it was time for Juan to return home, he removed his gold necklace and charm (which had his name on one side, and a Cross on the other) and gave it to Mom. She wore it the rest of her life. Over 20 years. At some point, when she got really sick, she removed it.
After Mom died, Dad told me to take anything of Mom's that I wanted. I asked for that necklace. Only, we couldn't find it. Dad searched for months. Nothing. Finally, last December, with the help of My Lovely Bride, we cleaned out all of Mom's things before her memorial. I was sure we'd find it when we cleared out the back bedroom, which was the guest room of their house, and where Mom kept most of her stuff. We didn't. I'd resigned myself to the fact that the necklace like Mom, and Juan, were gone.
I hadn't seen or spoken to Juan since the summer of 1988. He had visited us while attending Boston College. Shortly after, Juan went back to Cali,Colombia and Mom and Dad moved to El Paso, Texas. I was in Norman, Oklahoma. Mom and Dad moved three more times in the next four years, and at some point, Juan's contact info was lost. Juan of course, had no idea that we had moved from Sand Springs, and only had that contact info. I've searched for Juan over the years. When the internet came into my life, and email, I thought for sure that I'd be able to find him. I didn't. I trolled websites, like classmates.com, the AFS site, bulletin boards, Colombian directories, emailed strangers with the same last name --- you name it, I tried it. I even enlisted the help of a co-worker who hailed from Medellín, Colombia. Nothing. Juan was as lost to me, as his old necklace.
I awoke early the morning after Dad's surgery, and my first restless night alone in that fucking house. Not wanting to be there, I decided to go work out at 24 Hour Fitness. To do this, I needed to change my clothes, so I went to the back bedroom which had all of my stuff. The back bedroom is odd, a combination guest bedroom and dumping ground for Dad to put shit he didn't want to deal with since he never went into that room. Most of things in that room, the furniture and photos are touchstones from my youth. The only things that represent home for me in that fucking house.
After I dressed, I stood for awhile, spaced out, having only slept four hours the night before. At some point, I mindlessly walked over to an old credenza, to look at a picture of myself with an iguana. On the same shelf, was a small crystal golf ball tchotcke, a pair of Mom's clip-on sunglasses, and a broken Timex watch. I picked the watch up, and looked at the band. Then, for reasons I can't begin to explain, I dropped the watch, and grabbed the upper part of the golf ball tchotcke, which unbeknown to me was the top. Smiling, because I knew what I was going to find, I opened it up and found a safety pin, paper clip and the gold necklace and charm.
Strange, after I found the necklace, I didn't really freak out and celebrate. I didn't even put it on and wear it.
Instead, I put it on a table in that back bedroom which is where it stayed. A few days later, on a friend's advice, and after getting Dad's permission, I took all the photos of my Mom and shut them up in the closet of that back bedroom. Even though I know, in my heart, it was the right thing to do, it felt strange doing it. Stranger still, when I packed my things to leave, I ended up putting the necklace, unceremoniously in a pill container. Which is where it stayed for the next week.
I wasn't ready to wear the necklace. I know that sounds gay, but it is true. I actually felt like I lost something, not found it. It was an odd feeling, and since deep introspection ain't that easy at my pad, especially after being gone for a week, I decided to let it go, and not worry about it. Instead, for the next week, I fell back into the comfort of my day to day routine.
Only, the feeling didn't go away. If anything, it grew stronger. I eventually came to the conclusion that what I felt was different. Like I had walked around a corner or through a door. I'm not even sure what that means, because it is more a feeling than something concrete --- but the thing is, it doesn't really matter. What does matter is that on Sunday, September 30, after being home a week, I decided it was as good of a time as any to put the necklace on and start wearing it.
The very next day, I received an email from Juan.
Since then, Juan and I have traded emails and photos, and caught up with each other lives the past 20 years. In my first reply, the one where I told him Mom died, I told the strange story of the necklace.
Juan's reply:
"So you got your necklace story, I've got mine. I recently went to a family reunion, and we were drinking, and I got very sentimental. I was telling Pili (his wife) that I felt very bad because I couldn't find you, that I didn't know about you, and I started to cry. Mattias and Miranda (his children, who are 4 and 7) see me, and ask me why I'm crying and so upset, so I sat them down and told them all about you, and the year I lived in Sand Springs. The next day Mattias was walking around saying, STTUUAARRRRRRT, he was practicing the 'RRR' sound. Last Saturday, before he went to soccer practice, he came up to me and said, 'Papi, why don't you just call STTUUAARRRRRRT', so today I was thinking about it all day long, And I decided to go to this website and I saw your message with your contact info. Life moves and uses different channels. Bueno hermano mio, no te imaginas lo feliz que estoy de haberte encontrado nuevamente. Un gradne abrazo para Carter..."
I've had some bizarre shit happen this past year. Synchronistic things. Stuff that makes you appreciate how funny life truly is.
It's like Douglas Adams said: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."
I thought I'd find closure on the beach in Galveston the third week in September. Instead, I found it in that fucking house in Houston. Life is funny.
Until I BLOG again...Leave it behind.
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