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.
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