No One Knows

Last night, sitting in the hot tub with my mother, both of us naked and one of us more wrinkled than the other, one of us sipping on some sweet plum drink that one of neighboring rabbi's, a man who never comes without some new brew he's concocted--last week it was a fig tincture, this week plum with brandy--both seriously strong. Sitting in the hot water in the dark after an early evening rain, I said, "this waiting is like staring at the sky searching for signs of the coming storm. We know it's on it's way, we know it's coming, but no one knows when."

We've written the obituary, the eulogy is on its way, the little thank you cards for thinking of us have been ordered, the casket, the papers signed. We've even discussed what we'll wear and whether dad will be naked with a simple wrap or whether he'll wear his favorite sweatshirt--stained and well loved as it is.

This waiting, it's not that we're in a rush--no, we love holding his warm hand, the squeeze of it, his strength in the face of death--it's a joy to be able to walk into his room every morning and chirp, "hi dad!" simply because you can--lucky you.

But the waiting is strange-- all of us, especially dad, packing the bags for a journey we know he'll take, but we don't know when.

patch of earth

He always said he wanted to be cremated. Never was sentimental or romantic about the big burial. But then a couple of weeks ago my mom turned to him and said, "I want to be buried next to you. Do you want to be buried next to me?" And he turned to her and smiled and nodded yes. I wish I could convey the importance of this simple exchange, these plans made around a patch of earth. Mostly it's about how my parent's love has caught fire in the last 6 months since my dad has been sick. It's the way he asks where she is when she's out of the room. It's how he opens his eyes when he hears her voice, how he reaches out to her when she comes around to his side of the bed. It's the way today, when the six of us were gathered around that bed talking to my father about whether he thought he could handle one more hit of chemo or whether he was ready to let go...it was the way he turned to my mother and they just looked at each other for the longest time.

Rain

I don't think we want it to rain, though the weather is changing down here in L.A. The skies, while still blue, have patches of white and gray as well. It's not just the Sunday hunt for the little kids that might be spoiled, their disappointment for having to do it inside the house, but it's my dad and everything that has already fallen around here.

It's how he's stopped speaking to us because it's too much work, because it only comes out in a whisper, because there's nothing more to say. "Are you in pain?" we ask, "On a scale of 1-10
is it a 5?" we'll prod. "Are you hungry dad? Should we turn on the ball game, listen to some music?"

They say that the dying begin a retreat from everything that is life. "What's the point?" they think. They won't be a part of it anyway.

Rain, rain go away, come again another day.

a moment from my day

i'm in ikea today walking around slightly dazed, looking at things and listening to my ipod. My phone rings and I look down to see that it's my mother. "Hello? Hello?" I say, but no answer, though I hear her talking to someone in the background and I realize her phone has accidently called mine. I listen. My father is being placed into the passenger seat beside her. She's picking him up from radiation and I hear him groan, "Ohhhh.....ohhhh." I listen. She thanks someone who has helped dad, and then the sound of traffic as they pull onto Wilshire blvd. in Beverly Hills and their drive home. They're talking to one another; maybe dad will get a haircut; when will they be able to fit him into the triage for the removal of the gallblatter; she thinks she'll get the nurse tomorrow so she can do some holiday shopping. "I hate to leave you again," she says. I listen, evesdropping on my parents. Every now and then I whisper, "hi mom, hi dad," but they can't hear me. They keep talking, saying little things, and then there are spaces where they say nothing. It's just like I'm sitting in the back of the car with them. My parents are real, they're alive; this isn't just a memory or a fantasy. And my father is alive. I'm with them and I'm content to just sit in the back and listen to them drive; street sounds in the background, my father saying little things now and then, my mother responding. "Hi mom, hi dad," I whisper again.

What my teacher said today

"Through devotion comes change. The luxury of neurosis is over."

—Deena Metzger

saved

If I touch the hem of his garment
If I drink more water
Pick them up on time
Have healthy snacks for them to eat
If I remember to get cash for dinner and call the theater for an extra ticket
If I get the email from the company who is hiring
If I remember to thank her for the gift
Send the flowers
If he tells me he loves me after I tell him first
If someone beautiful calls me out of the blue
If I remember to pray and stretch my bad arm
If I lose those two pounds
swim the whole mile
Brush my teeth and hug him for no good reason
Write the check, feed the dog, wipe my ass, move the laundry, pick up the poop, thank my father for the money, pluck my eyebrows, change my underwear, respond to her email, swap the sheets on their beds
If I touch the hem of his garment will I be saved?

Choices

This is about a woman coming home from a four-day trip and standing on the corner of Broadway and 12th with her bags at ten o’clock at night waiting for her husband
This is about him being late and her wondering which other more important thing has delayed him; a call to his lover, one more email, a decision to take the long way.

This is about seeing his car on the other side of the street and the way she has to cross,
how instantly cross she becomes

This is about the shut of the car door and the pull into late night traffic
The way she doesn’t reach over the stick to bridge the gap, no hello honey kiss
The distance, the disappointment that has come out of thin air;
Suddenly, glad to see him, then angry out of nowhere.

This is about a conversation earlier in the day with her friend about how loving people heals us. About how we should love because it feels good in us, not because people are deserving of our love. This is about the way her friend nodded and kept staring at her as if that was the freshest idea she’d ever heard

This is about the man and the woman and how the conversation in the car moves to the kids and what’s happening tomorrow.
This is about domestic life.
About the slightly bossy way he asked her to lock the front door after they got home
The flat spans of dessert as they lay in bed, neither moving to connect. This is the mountain of shoulds, the way she sidles up next to him, her stomach facing his hip, her hand on his chest.

This is about a late night conversation where she suggests they talk about telling their 10-year-old about the lovers because it might be worse when she does find out and feels she’s been lied to
This is about him saying no
How she turns away

This is about coming home but not feeling at home
About a soft blanket of depression she reserves for this man,
About silence and exhaustion and retreat
A decision not to bring up money until after Valentines Day because it would just ruin things
And the long list she imagined making of all the ways she loved him; everything he’d love to hear, how happy it would make him
How down the drain that idea went, for no good reason.

This is about the way we turn away as easily as we turn towards
This is about choices,
Reasons to love, reasons not to
This is about a woman standing alone at 10 at night in downtown Oakland with her bags, which are packed. This is about not knowing if she’s coming or going.

What they Loved

They loved the motel and they loved standing by the check-in counter, hands around the other, sometimes standing behind the other, hands on an ass.

They loved the motel bed, how crisp and neatly made it was, and they loved the fresh sheets and the fresh starts, they loved the little glasses, always two, with sanitized paper around the lip as if they were the first two, Adam and Eve, to drink from the cup.

They loved the clean, white towels, and they loved the ashtrays and that they were allowed to smoke, that they’d pay extra for that, and the big windows that opened wide and let them puff that smoke out to the bay

They loved the sound of cargo boats, the loading and the unloading, the sounds of commerce because they were a part of that commerce

had passed credit cards and photo IDs, triple A cards over the counter to the young Asian girl at the desk. Yes they said eagerly and nodded their heads, yes to the king sized bed and the ashtrays. Yes to the continental breakfast, the HBO and the complimentary morning paper.

They loved that the concierge never met their eye, never scrutinized, never even said goodbye as they silently slipped through the lobby three hours later and returned home, leaving beds un-maid and towels only slightly used.

They loved the privilege of being anonymous, of not having to answer questions. They loved the freedom of not needing much; a bed, an ashtray, a view of the bay; a window that opened, a working heating vent.

They loved the privilege and the freedom of not needing to answer to each other, not needing the details of where the other had been, what they had said and what they were going to do next.

They appreciated instead the sensible simplicity of a button, a zipper. Tongues were magical, there was nothing to lie about. Curfews were vague. Yes there were people who cared about them a few miles away but they would return to them soon enough.

They loved the peace of this and especially the relief after buttons came undone and boots were tossed and thrown.

They knew how to make the sounds and they knew some dirty words too. They would come hungry but they didn’t care what they cooked up, it was always what they wanted.

They never noticed the terrible brown fabric curtains or the funny little notes left on bathroom counters about forgotten toothbrushes and q-tips at the front desk

They appreciated the hotel’s concern for everything they’d brought and everything they’d forgotten, everything they’d leave behind after their three hours, after they’d mussed the bed and made the sounds, after they’d squeezed out every last bit of tension and stress.

All the things of the day.

The edges they walked, the money they owed, the people who loved them who they could not always properly love back. The lies they told and the people they paid to listen to those lies at $145 an hour. The silent prayers they uttered, the pills that helped them sleep, the tiny goodies they littered throughout their day to get them through.

This was their chance, their time

And they never wasted it

Never tried to fix the other, and if talk of a son’s basketball game went on too long or a story about a remodel glitch went on and on, one would silence the other simply with a smile and a hand placed on a hand, that might slip up to a chest or inside a blouse, and they would remember where and who they were and why they had come to the Extended Stay Hotel or the Phoenix Motel or the Comfort Inn or even the Red Couch.

Time was of the essence, there were bridges to cross and spouses to return to, surely a carpool to drive in the morning, and they loved those things too.