I had a dream two nights ago. I was walking, kidding around good-naturedly with my friend Giuseppe, and then it was time for us to part ways. As I was getting ready to say good-bye, he turned into Alice. And in a momentarily satisfying way, I got to say good-bye to her.
I never got to say good-bye to Alice, in reality. In f`cked-up reality. That's something I just didn't get, as our life stories go. And I have to live with that. I can dream it, and I'll take that, but the hopelessness of never exchanging a final word haunts me, still today.
I, I, I. This is all about me, selfish me. Yet I am all I have to plumb and work to maintain a relationship with Alice in the present. I know I need to look more forward than back, for L's sake, yet the future doesn't hold Alice. To be with her is to invoke the past.
I continue to struggle here.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
She gives good cheek
Alice would want to know this: When L wants to express love to you, to give you comfort, she extends her cheek to you. To me, at least. She rubs her cheek against mine, offers it for a kiss, and for a moment everything is OK in the world. This part of her is so soft, so tender, she must know the power she holds in her cheeks!
Yes, and now that it's written here, my living family members can know how L gives good cheek.
Yes, and now that it's written here, my living family members can know how L gives good cheek.
Strands of hair stuck to her face
We're slipping into 2009, another New Year's we'll be experiencing without Alice. I started to write "another New Year's that Alice won't be experiencing" -- and I just don't know which is more significant. So as I think about this year turning into next, I am remembering a moment from a couple of months ago.
It was morning, and I was running late for work. I needed to help L get dressed, take her to school, and be on my way. I had about 15 minutes to do what would typically take 35. So I thought I'd take a short cut and rather than facilitate L dressing herself, I would dress her.
After a fair amount of cajoling and wrestling and getting her clothes on, we struggled to put on her socks while she was still on the bed. By this point, we were both fatigued, and I just wanted to leave the house. I put her up on the changing station we used when she was younger, and she started crying, largely out of frustration. She wanted to put the socks on herself, yet we were getting later by the minute.
As I was fussing with getting her toes into her socks, I looked up at her, and saw about 6 strands of hair mixed with tears stuck to her cheek. In a flash I was reminded of Alice; I lost control and started bawling.
The thought that kept running through my mind was "I saw Alice one too many times like this when we were younger. Why was she forever in pain?" I could see Alice, unhappy, crying, with hair stuck to her face in the way it happens when your hurt is too great to focus on anything like your appearance.
I couldn't stop crying. I ran into the bathroom to hide my tears from L and she immediately called out, desperately "Hairig!" So I returned to her and explained that I was thinking about Auntig Alice, and that it wasn't L's fault I was crying. I told her I was very sad as I thought about her aunt.
A moment earlier L had stopped shedding tears; my outburst overrode hers. (Note to self: Next time she's howling, just howl louder? Actually that's not the answer.) I couldn't stop weeping, the kind that exercised my stomach muscles, for several more minutes. I was so sad, wondering "why couldn't Alice have had a happier childhood? Why was she the one to cry first, and the most? Why did we allow her to be a target of our family's aggressions?" I cried some more, until I regained composure.
L gave me a hug, and a kiss, and allowed me to put her shoes on. That lightened me. I got dressed, and we left the house, spent from a trying morning. I got to my first appointment 20 minutes late, yet nothing could get in the way of my grief for losing my sister.
It was morning, and I was running late for work. I needed to help L get dressed, take her to school, and be on my way. I had about 15 minutes to do what would typically take 35. So I thought I'd take a short cut and rather than facilitate L dressing herself, I would dress her.
After a fair amount of cajoling and wrestling and getting her clothes on, we struggled to put on her socks while she was still on the bed. By this point, we were both fatigued, and I just wanted to leave the house. I put her up on the changing station we used when she was younger, and she started crying, largely out of frustration. She wanted to put the socks on herself, yet we were getting later by the minute.
As I was fussing with getting her toes into her socks, I looked up at her, and saw about 6 strands of hair mixed with tears stuck to her cheek. In a flash I was reminded of Alice; I lost control and started bawling.
The thought that kept running through my mind was "I saw Alice one too many times like this when we were younger. Why was she forever in pain?" I could see Alice, unhappy, crying, with hair stuck to her face in the way it happens when your hurt is too great to focus on anything like your appearance.
I couldn't stop crying. I ran into the bathroom to hide my tears from L and she immediately called out, desperately "Hairig!" So I returned to her and explained that I was thinking about Auntig Alice, and that it wasn't L's fault I was crying. I told her I was very sad as I thought about her aunt.
A moment earlier L had stopped shedding tears; my outburst overrode hers. (Note to self: Next time she's howling, just howl louder? Actually that's not the answer.) I couldn't stop weeping, the kind that exercised my stomach muscles, for several more minutes. I was so sad, wondering "why couldn't Alice have had a happier childhood? Why was she the one to cry first, and the most? Why did we allow her to be a target of our family's aggressions?" I cried some more, until I regained composure.
L gave me a hug, and a kiss, and allowed me to put her shoes on. That lightened me. I got dressed, and we left the house, spent from a trying morning. I got to my first appointment 20 minutes late, yet nothing could get in the way of my grief for losing my sister.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
For Alice
Is it possible that by posting these images of L here, they might reach Alice? I have to try. Alice would be so proud of her niece today.
Funeral tomorrow
I can't sleep; the mother of a dear friend of mine passed away this weekend. She literally died in her sleep, she just didn't wake up on Saturday morning. How beautiful is that? She was in her 80s.
Again, this is a death with which I can be at peace. A long life, punctuated by many happy milestones. Most recently, in October, she attended the wedding of her granddaughter. That's a big deal.
Tomorrow I will go to her funeral, which will include her burial, and I haven't been to once since Alice's. I think I will cry through the whole thing, at the injustice of death, and out of missing Alice. The difference between the funerals, though, is that it is supposed to be in the 30s here tomorrow. On the day of Alice's funeral in Southern California, it was naturally in the high 70s.
I write here to alleviate the heaviness in my heart. Does it work? At least I feel I can get to sleep now, maybe, having written these thoughts that sometimes keep me awake.
Again, this is a death with which I can be at peace. A long life, punctuated by many happy milestones. Most recently, in October, she attended the wedding of her granddaughter. That's a big deal.
Tomorrow I will go to her funeral, which will include her burial, and I haven't been to once since Alice's. I think I will cry through the whole thing, at the injustice of death, and out of missing Alice. The difference between the funerals, though, is that it is supposed to be in the 30s here tomorrow. On the day of Alice's funeral in Southern California, it was naturally in the high 70s.
I write here to alleviate the heaviness in my heart. Does it work? At least I feel I can get to sleep now, maybe, having written these thoughts that sometimes keep me awake.
Still dreaming
I still dream of Alice, and it's like creating a new life with her. The other night I dreamt that she had dyed [I just changed the f`cked up spelling from 'died'] her hair platinum and it was cute. There's always this feeling in my dreams that her presence is temporary, and I must take full advantage of it. So I was free to tell her how gorgeous she looked, something I rarely, if ever, told her in real life. I was scared to get too close, or to touch-off something about her own self-regard. In my dreams, it feels really good to express myself unconditionally.
It's been a long time since I've written, I know. It's like Michelle Williams said (below), my feelings about Alice and her death are always changing, and while I have worked to capture as many of them as possible here, sometimes they come and go so quickly, I can't latch onto them.
The yearning I feel to be with Alice is still so strong, I'm grateful that it manifests itself in my dreams. My mom has told me in the recent past, in tears, that she hasn't been dreaming of Alice. She holds Alice so close to her heart, it's as if Alice can't flutter into the farther-away land of my mother's dreams. In mine, for now, she is vibrant, and smiling, and moving quickly.
God damn it.
This pain, not these dreams.
It's been a long time since I've written, I know. It's like Michelle Williams said (below), my feelings about Alice and her death are always changing, and while I have worked to capture as many of them as possible here, sometimes they come and go so quickly, I can't latch onto them.
The yearning I feel to be with Alice is still so strong, I'm grateful that it manifests itself in my dreams. My mom has told me in the recent past, in tears, that she hasn't been dreaming of Alice. She holds Alice so close to her heart, it's as if Alice can't flutter into the farther-away land of my mother's dreams. In mine, for now, she is vibrant, and smiling, and moving quickly.
God damn it.
This pain, not these dreams.
Words from a celebrity
The actor Michelle Williams, who was divorced from Heath Ledger, recently was interviewed by Newsweek magazine. She spoke of losing Heath, and it resonates with me. His death was also completely unexpected and premature, and I suspect her relationship with him was also intense, and hot and cold. Her words capture many elements of my experience.
-----
From Newsweek:
Williams is jovial and chatty, until the conversation turns to Heath. You can see it's still difficult for her to talk about him, and she hasn't done so publicly until now. The first time Ledger's name comes up, she bursts into tears. "It's so sad," Williams says. When she's asked about how she's been doing in the past year, she's silent for a very long time. "I guess it's always changing," she says. There's another pause. "What else can I say?" Her voice is breathy and fragile, and she takes a few gulps of air. "I just wake up each day in a slightly different place—grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing'." She stops again. "It's a strange thing to say"—her words unravel slowly, her eyes tear up—"because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."
-----
It's heartening, in a f`cked-up way, to feel someone else's grief mirror some of my own.
-----
From Newsweek:
Williams is jovial and chatty, until the conversation turns to Heath. You can see it's still difficult for her to talk about him, and she hasn't done so publicly until now. The first time Ledger's name comes up, she bursts into tears. "It's so sad," Williams says. When she's asked about how she's been doing in the past year, she's silent for a very long time. "I guess it's always changing," she says. There's another pause. "What else can I say?" Her voice is breathy and fragile, and she takes a few gulps of air. "I just wake up each day in a slightly different place—grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing'." She stops again. "It's a strange thing to say"—her words unravel slowly, her eyes tear up—"because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."
-----
It's heartening, in a f`cked-up way, to feel someone else's grief mirror some of my own.
My friend Davis Platt
Davis Platt was one of the first friends I made when I moved to New York in 1996. We met at a general membership meeting for the Identity House, a community peer counseling center. I was flattered when he asked one of the facilitators who I was, as a sort of fresh-faced new member. He was 73 at the time, and we immediately became friends. He knew alot about life and the city, and I was eager to know more about both.
On October 10 I received a message from his nephew, and immediately thought "oh, sh`t." When I returned his phone call, I learned that what I dreaded was true: David had died. He'd had hip replacement surgery back in May, and late on October 2nd, he got up from bed and fell. He broke his fall by hitting his chest against the corner of a table, and punctured his lung and fractured a couple of ribs. Yes, he called 911 and they responded immediately. The following day he was in good spirits at the hospital, and then in the afternoon, his heart failed.
The term "passed away" fits here; we can fairly say "Davis passed away." On his dying day, he was 85 and went rather painlessly. I can't say the same about Alice.
I didn't know that death could feel OK, that it could feel like part of the order of the world. Hearing of Davis's passing, I felt shocked, I felt sad, I also felt at peace. He had lived a long life and experienced a significant amount of what life had to offer. Alice also experienced what life had to offer, only less than someone who reached 85 years. It still feels like Alice was torn from this world, and I believe I will never feel that way about Davis's departure.
At his memorial service, I spoke without tears of my gratitude for his work in the civil rights movement. How his efforts contributed to the existence of my family today. It was for the public to hear, it felt final, and afterwards I was relieved.
Relief is a feeling that just isn't part of my relationship with Alice today. I suppose it never was.
On October 10 I received a message from his nephew, and immediately thought "oh, sh`t." When I returned his phone call, I learned that what I dreaded was true: David had died. He'd had hip replacement surgery back in May, and late on October 2nd, he got up from bed and fell. He broke his fall by hitting his chest against the corner of a table, and punctured his lung and fractured a couple of ribs. Yes, he called 911 and they responded immediately. The following day he was in good spirits at the hospital, and then in the afternoon, his heart failed.
The term "passed away" fits here; we can fairly say "Davis passed away." On his dying day, he was 85 and went rather painlessly. I can't say the same about Alice.
I didn't know that death could feel OK, that it could feel like part of the order of the world. Hearing of Davis's passing, I felt shocked, I felt sad, I also felt at peace. He had lived a long life and experienced a significant amount of what life had to offer. Alice also experienced what life had to offer, only less than someone who reached 85 years. It still feels like Alice was torn from this world, and I believe I will never feel that way about Davis's departure.
At his memorial service, I spoke without tears of my gratitude for his work in the civil rights movement. How his efforts contributed to the existence of my family today. It was for the public to hear, it felt final, and afterwards I was relieved.
Relief is a feeling that just isn't part of my relationship with Alice today. I suppose it never was.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Three Butterflies, Two Years, One Moment
As I type this, today has become tomorrow. It still feels like today, until I get in bed and fall asleep.
Today I had alot of work to do, teaching 3 classes back to back. I didn't have much time to reflect on Alice, and her life, and her death -- yet she was with me throughout my work. There's a refrain in a Distillers song that kept me going, actually. I was working with people I didn't know, and in designing a course it's hard to know if people will get what they want out of the class. So the lyric is "Don't waste my time, come on, get what you come for" and it made me feel comforted that participants could take responsibility for themselves in getting what they came for; it wasn't something I needed to be occupied with for everybody. So Alice helped me relax and provide a better program, really.
Then, as I was just outside of the building on my way home, I saw 3 beautiful black and yellow butterflies intermingling, almost in my face. It was a rare sight -- three butterflies so close together. I stopped and looked at them, and a passerby commented, "look at the 3 butterflies together." I knew it was Alice immediately.
Next, as I moved to the other side of the garden with my colleague, the three butterflies came our way again! Still flitting and dancing in the air as a trio, they made sure we saw them. It was a sign that the three of us -- Sophie, Alice and I -- are still together. Alice wants me to know that we will always be together, somewhere.
Isn't it truly amazing that I could see this so far from home? I don't think it's a coincidence, I do believe it's a sign. And I'm grateful for Alice to remember me as deeply as I remember her. Somehow.
Today I had alot of work to do, teaching 3 classes back to back. I didn't have much time to reflect on Alice, and her life, and her death -- yet she was with me throughout my work. There's a refrain in a Distillers song that kept me going, actually. I was working with people I didn't know, and in designing a course it's hard to know if people will get what they want out of the class. So the lyric is "Don't waste my time, come on, get what you come for" and it made me feel comforted that participants could take responsibility for themselves in getting what they came for; it wasn't something I needed to be occupied with for everybody. So Alice helped me relax and provide a better program, really.
Then, as I was just outside of the building on my way home, I saw 3 beautiful black and yellow butterflies intermingling, almost in my face. It was a rare sight -- three butterflies so close together. I stopped and looked at them, and a passerby commented, "look at the 3 butterflies together." I knew it was Alice immediately.
Next, as I moved to the other side of the garden with my colleague, the three butterflies came our way again! Still flitting and dancing in the air as a trio, they made sure we saw them. It was a sign that the three of us -- Sophie, Alice and I -- are still together. Alice wants me to know that we will always be together, somewhere.
Isn't it truly amazing that I could see this so far from home? I don't think it's a coincidence, I do believe it's a sign. And I'm grateful for Alice to remember me as deeply as I remember her. Somehow.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Two Years Tomorrow
Tomorrow, September 19, 2008 will mark two years since Alice died.
I'm out of town for work, away from all members of my family, and it's hard. I'm so sad. I miss Alice so much. It's been a long time since I last posted to this blog, I know. Of course I think of Alice so very frequently, although you wouldn't know it because I haven't written anything here. I do think it's an indication of how Alice has moved deeper inside of me, her physical absence is less at my fingertips, as it were.
I'm struggling here to make clear sense, I think. Maybe it's the recirculated air I breathed during the flight to Tampa.
About 10 nights ago, I was out with a friend, we had a drink and then dinner, and while walking over to the restaurant -- Lupe's East L.A. Kitchen, yes, in New York City -- I saw a nearly full, brilliantly white moon. And immediately I thought of Alice. For the first time, in connecting a moment in nature with remembering Alice, I wasn't overwhelmingly sad. Maybe it was the beer, but I felt comforted to have a reminder of her with me while I was out enjoying an evening. It is possible to feel sadness, pain and joy together while carrying Alice with me during a pleasant evening out.
What has been so difficult, realizing this two years later, is the fact that Alice was the closest person to me. She had been in my life, from the day I was born. We understood each other in a fundamental, cosmic way. She was under my skin. So losing her has been losing part of my life.
These words feel a little more heady, less emotional, than other words I've spilled onto these digital pages. And while I cried yesterday, and I cried today... I don't know, I can't end this one in a tidy knot. Maybe I'm tired.
Very tired indeed.
I'm out of town for work, away from all members of my family, and it's hard. I'm so sad. I miss Alice so much. It's been a long time since I last posted to this blog, I know. Of course I think of Alice so very frequently, although you wouldn't know it because I haven't written anything here. I do think it's an indication of how Alice has moved deeper inside of me, her physical absence is less at my fingertips, as it were.
I'm struggling here to make clear sense, I think. Maybe it's the recirculated air I breathed during the flight to Tampa.
About 10 nights ago, I was out with a friend, we had a drink and then dinner, and while walking over to the restaurant -- Lupe's East L.A. Kitchen, yes, in New York City -- I saw a nearly full, brilliantly white moon. And immediately I thought of Alice. For the first time, in connecting a moment in nature with remembering Alice, I wasn't overwhelmingly sad. Maybe it was the beer, but I felt comforted to have a reminder of her with me while I was out enjoying an evening. It is possible to feel sadness, pain and joy together while carrying Alice with me during a pleasant evening out.
What has been so difficult, realizing this two years later, is the fact that Alice was the closest person to me. She had been in my life, from the day I was born. We understood each other in a fundamental, cosmic way. She was under my skin. So losing her has been losing part of my life.
These words feel a little more heady, less emotional, than other words I've spilled onto these digital pages. And while I cried yesterday, and I cried today... I don't know, I can't end this one in a tidy knot. Maybe I'm tired.
Very tired indeed.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Who said a prayer for Alice?
My mom wants an answer to this question.
She talks of how Alice told her that whenever Alice would hear an ambulance go by, she would say a little prayer to herself for the person who was about to receive help.
So my mom wants to know, who said a prayer for Alice as paramedics were rushing to her scene? We already know that I was at my computer wiling away the cyber-hours, oblivious to what had happened to my sister.
The freeway onramp was closed off for three hours. I said to my mom that just as Alice said prayers for people she didn't know, I feel sure that at least one person who witnessed the horror--or at least the related traffic--said a prayer for Alice. I can't know for sure, yet I feel pretty certain.
I panic when I think about this. It's panic with despair I feel, in my stomach. My mom says thinking about this aspect of Alice's death is like getting her hand close to a hot stove. The heat gets too intense at some point and she has to pull her hand away. Because it hurts.
Mostly I'm disappointed in myself. I wish I had felt more cosmically connected to Alice to have known that something was wrong. And so I might have said a prayer, but I didn't. Which hurts too.
She talks of how Alice told her that whenever Alice would hear an ambulance go by, she would say a little prayer to herself for the person who was about to receive help.
So my mom wants to know, who said a prayer for Alice as paramedics were rushing to her scene? We already know that I was at my computer wiling away the cyber-hours, oblivious to what had happened to my sister.
The freeway onramp was closed off for three hours. I said to my mom that just as Alice said prayers for people she didn't know, I feel sure that at least one person who witnessed the horror--or at least the related traffic--said a prayer for Alice. I can't know for sure, yet I feel pretty certain.
I panic when I think about this. It's panic with despair I feel, in my stomach. My mom says thinking about this aspect of Alice's death is like getting her hand close to a hot stove. The heat gets too intense at some point and she has to pull her hand away. Because it hurts.
Mostly I'm disappointed in myself. I wish I had felt more cosmically connected to Alice to have known that something was wrong. And so I might have said a prayer, but I didn't. Which hurts too.
A Year and a Half Later
Tomorrow, March 19, 2008 marks exactly a year and a half since Alice died. I count the weeks and months since she's been gone, and the numbers keep getting bigger. Like aging.
Why am I forever tracking the time that has passed? I think it's to know how long it's been since my life was irrevocably transformed. A way to chart in time the distance between now and when she was a living and breathing part of my life.
Alice's birthday is coming up next week. March has become a difficult month to get through.
Why am I forever tracking the time that has passed? I think it's to know how long it's been since my life was irrevocably transformed. A way to chart in time the distance between now and when she was a living and breathing part of my life.
Alice's birthday is coming up next week. March has become a difficult month to get through.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
It's kind of funny.
Now that spring is almost here, I'm realizing something. And maybe it's kind of funny?
Every winter since I moved to New York, I get SAD -- that's Seasonal Affective Disorder. In January and February, when it seems the sun sets as early as 4pm and during the day I'm either indoors or walking in the shadows of buildings, I don't get enough of the healthful benefits of sunlight, and effectively experience a kind of depression. I lack energy, am irritable and typically prefer to spend the day in bed.
Well, since Alice died I haven't noticed my SAD. It's subsumed by the persistent low- to medium-grade depression I feel all the time. Which isn't funny, at least not ha-ha funny. It's f`cked up funny.
Friends have told me it can take 3 to 4 years before I might feel like myself again. So maybe in a couple of years I'll regain my ability to feel SAD in the winter. Ha--
Every winter since I moved to New York, I get SAD -- that's Seasonal Affective Disorder. In January and February, when it seems the sun sets as early as 4pm and during the day I'm either indoors or walking in the shadows of buildings, I don't get enough of the healthful benefits of sunlight, and effectively experience a kind of depression. I lack energy, am irritable and typically prefer to spend the day in bed.
Well, since Alice died I haven't noticed my SAD. It's subsumed by the persistent low- to medium-grade depression I feel all the time. Which isn't funny, at least not ha-ha funny. It's f`cked up funny.
Friends have told me it can take 3 to 4 years before I might feel like myself again. So maybe in a couple of years I'll regain my ability to feel SAD in the winter. Ha--
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Things that make me think of Alice
On Saturday night there were icicles hanging outside the bedroom window, illuminated by moonlight. I couldn't see the moon, though, it must have been shining from over the roof.
Those icicles were pristinely lit -- silvery, twisted jewels twinkling goodnight to us. The night outside was crisp -- well, because it was frozen. We're in the middle of winter and I'm not in Southern California anymore. So all of it except the frozen part made me think of Alice.
She has taught me how to take in nature's beauty when it's present. Because it's fleeting, like so many things in life.
Those icicles were pristinely lit -- silvery, twisted jewels twinkling goodnight to us. The night outside was crisp -- well, because it was frozen. We're in the middle of winter and I'm not in Southern California anymore. So all of it except the frozen part made me think of Alice.
She has taught me how to take in nature's beauty when it's present. Because it's fleeting, like so many things in life.
Friday, February 01, 2008
February 1, 2008
It's becoming too long to have lived without Alice. I can't tolerate the increasing amount of time that has passed since the last time I was with her.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Two songs -- True now as they were then.
Alice and I were always breaking each other's hearts, throughout our entire lives. And now in her death, she has broken my heart once and for all.
I listened to this song, Always Breaking My Heart, over and over when I was in California in September for the one year anniversary of Alice's death. It's sung by Belinda Carlisle, one of my favorites. She makes heartbreak look glamorous, which it just isn't.
You can click on either of the arrows to play the songs.
Then I heard Carole King's song at MetFoods a couple of days ago, and it's stuck with me. Alice forever pleaded with me to move back to California, I was so far away from the family. She knew how to pull on my heartstrings, because the geographic distance between my birth family and me has been an issue for me, too. I get so sad when I think of her desire to be closer to me, and my insistence on staying so far away.You could bring up my relationship with Sophie and its difficulties, I know. It's true that I can be in the same room with some members of my family and feel thousands of miles away. I've reconciled the geographic distance by saying that we can work on the closeness of our relationships without moving. Still, it's hard. Obviously.
In the end, Alice remains away. Yet close. I can't keep from remembering her in every way I can.
Friday, January 11, 2008
And now it's 2008
Alice didn't live to see 2008. This is a difficult one, the year I turn 37 and surpass Alice's age. How could I have known that this potential existed in my life?
What makes starting 2008 somewhat easier is the notion that I'm starting to know Alice more as someone who's dead than who's alive. It's a function of the passing of time.
My mom said, incredulously, "Alice is moving to the backburner. I can't believe it."
She yearns to dream of Alice, to feel closer to her and experience her, even unconsciously. I want the same thing, myself.
So here's to dreaming of Alice in 2008.
What makes starting 2008 somewhat easier is the notion that I'm starting to know Alice more as someone who's dead than who's alive. It's a function of the passing of time.
My mom said, incredulously, "Alice is moving to the backburner. I can't believe it."
She yearns to dream of Alice, to feel closer to her and experience her, even unconsciously. I want the same thing, myself.
So here's to dreaming of Alice in 2008.
"I like the color of your car."
Even before Ryan wrote in the comments section of the previous post, sharing his memory of a surprise run-in and conversation with Alice, my mom was recently relating to Peter and me how Alice talked to people so very easily.
She recalled an afternoon when she and Alice were riding their bicycles in Cerritos, my mom naturally lagging behind.
At one point, Alice was way ahead, and stopped at the light for my mom to catch up. When my mom at last arrived, Alice was chatting with the passenger and driver of a car in the neighboring lane. My mom recounted that she seemed very comfortable engaging with these guys; she thought they were friends.
When they drove off, my mom asked if Alice knew them. She said she didn't. My mom wanted to know how it was that they started talking. Alice replied that she had commented "I like the color of your car."
How's that for an opening line? And who wouldn't respond to an attractive young woman on a bicycle complimenting his car? Alice's charm connected her to so many.
She recalled an afternoon when she and Alice were riding their bicycles in Cerritos, my mom naturally lagging behind.
At one point, Alice was way ahead, and stopped at the light for my mom to catch up. When my mom at last arrived, Alice was chatting with the passenger and driver of a car in the neighboring lane. My mom recounted that she seemed very comfortable engaging with these guys; she thought they were friends.
When they drove off, my mom asked if Alice knew them. She said she didn't. My mom wanted to know how it was that they started talking. Alice replied that she had commented "I like the color of your car."
How's that for an opening line? And who wouldn't respond to an attractive young woman on a bicycle complimenting his car? Alice's charm connected her to so many.
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