Reminders

This photo was lying on the desk, I think we were planning to enlarge it, and I realized it's one I haven't uploaded to the blog.

In December 2005 we came to California to introduce L to the family. My Dad, Alice, Peter, L and I went to a Thai restaurant near my dad's home. Alice and my dad cooed over L throughout the meal.

L was the great savior to our relationship that visit. We all focused on her, and not on the bitternesses between us. She does that with my mom and dad and Sophie still.

The picture reminds me that Alice was a great gift in my life. And it's a reminder that the physical gift, Alice herself, is gone. That I am without her now.

My eyes are slowly opening enough to see another reminder--that many people I love are still living, and need me in their lives too.

Peter's Birthday

Peter turned 43 on Monday, and my mom, dad and Sophie all contacted him during the day to wish him a happy birthday.

At 10pm after he and I had a cupcake each from Magnolia Bakery, I checked my cell phone voicemail. Sjoekje had called, and I couldn't quite understand what she was saying, so I put the phone on speaker.

When Peter heard the message, he said "is that Alice?"

As if Alice could call.

Hold on. When I, too, first heard the message, my heart dropped for a beat when she said "Haig." Incredibly, it sounded just like Alice. Her speech pattern, the tone of her voice, the rhythm of her words -- all evoked Alice. Within another moment, I realized of course it was Sjoekje.

Made me think that Alice called to wish Peter a happy birthday. I rarely check my voicemail via speaker phone, and when I do, nobody's around. It's like Peter was meant to overhear this message on his big day.

I e-mailed Sjoekje to tell her, and she said indeed she felt possessed by Alice when she was leaving the message, though not in a supernatural sense, in a spiritual sense. That in the past it's true they often sounded the same, and that Alice's voice was contagious.

The alternative is to accept that Alice won't be calling Peter on his birthday anymore. That when I say my family called him, that means he received 3 phone calls.

This scenario is just too hard to bear. I prefer to believe that Alice called this year along with the rest of the family.

The top photo is from Alice's flash drive that I just plugged in for the first time. Looks like it was taken with her telephone.

Even through a grainy image, her smile is luminous.

Toms Place

The memory came first, then I thought to include the video. Seems like I'm on some YouTube kick, and like most things, I expect it'll pass.

In the summer of 1982 when I was 11, Alice was 12, and Sophie 13, our family went camping. Not motor-home, running water with cots camping, but tents and sleeping bags on the rocky floor camping. This time we hauled our gear to Toms Place, California which is considered part of Sierra Nevada. About a seven hour drive from Cerritos, it's pretty with lots of green trees and blue skies.

One day my parents let us kids go to the river by ourselves; I think the novelty of our independence is one reason why I remember this incident so vividly. We brought along Sophie's single-speaker boom box, and played a cassette recording of "Vacation" by the Go-Go's, which she had taped from KROQ.

We sat on big flat rocks, under both shade and sun, with the cold rushing waters right at our feet. It was a pleasant moment because none of us were fighting, we were grateful to be just the three of us this afternoon.

I thought my sisters were the coolest -- older, and interested in fashion, and they could smack me down with their words at any time. Actually, they were cool despite that last one. We related the words "back here at home there's nothing to do" to our experience camping, with nothing to do except sit and listen to a song about same.

I still don't totally get it. Will Alice never experience summer vacation again, or does she now know only summer vacation?

Last Summer

By most weather reports, winter arrived late this year.

My experience feels different.

To press play above is to hear the song that makes me think about Alice again and again. Gwen Stefani sings "it looks like an early winter for us" and I think how winter really did start early for us, on September 19 to be exact. I know I'm taking the lyrics out of context.

It's poignant that Alice died on just about the last day of summer, given that she was a summer girl. She loved the sun and warm air and had a perpetually glowing tan. Her last summer was so full of hope, too. Hope for exciting things in San Diego as she neared completion of her master's degree in kineseology, hope for her niece as she was watching her grow, hope generally for good things ahead.

This winter has been going on for a very long time now, and the end isn't in sight.

At least the reminder is a pop song, which Alice enjoyed blasting on her stereo, too.

Alice. And Mel and Flo and Vera.

It may be true. As time passes, maybe only the good memories endure, and the recollections of more tumultuous times with Alice fade.

My friend Giuseppe is always playing something on the telephone, and this past week, in his typical wry fashion, he played the theme to the TV show Alice via YouTube. I got lost for a moment, transported to the summers when I was 9 and 10.



On weekday mornings, while my mom was occupied around the house and my dad was at work, Sophie, Alice and I would sit in front of our 19" black and white television and watch reruns while eating Shredded Wheat and Cocoa Pebbles mixed together. I Love Lucy was on at 9:00 a.m., and at 9:30 a.m. was Alice. My mom loved Vera, and we found Flo and Mel and the adult humor irresistable. This snippet is a sing-along version to the credits from the first season.

Once the program ended, it was time to run outside and find out who was around to ride bikes with, play hide and seek, or go to Pioneer Chicken for some salty and greasy treats. The possibilities in the summer air were endless.

This pleasant scene is all the happier because I know it wasn't something I appreciated by myself. Sophie and Alice shared their delight in the show with me, too. To the extent that maybe Alice has tracked down Vic Tayback in the sweet hereafter and has said hello? Huh.

Guess what I found

It happened for the second time earlier today.

I was in the kitchen when Peter yelled "Guess what I found!" My first thought was oh, something I lost, that I've been seeking, something that will make me feel better to have again? And in the back of my head was, Alice. Like Peter might find Alice while rummaging through L's things.

I had a 0.5 second hope that my emptiness was going to be filled by what Peter found, and I was going to have relief. Maybe not finding Alice herself, but some message from her, reassuring me that I was a good brother, that she would always know that I loved her dearly even in her death.

So that I could rest a little bit.

This burden, my hell, is continuing to live through the suddenness of Alice's death with all the unresolved stuff, what I never said, what I took for granted with her, what I never quite did.

What Peter found was the squeegee L had chewed, and that we need to replace. Oh, that. The first time Peter asked me, he had found her crayons.

That something lost was located somehow gives me hope that other things I am seeking can also be found. Like less sorrow. And more real connectedness.

What I was doing on September 19, 2006.

For a while I was trying to remember exactly where I was the moment Alice died. Was I thinking of her? Was she somehow involved with me? Did I feel anything specific from her?

Now I know.

From the publishing history of the website I've created for my business, I learned that I was online developing the site just as Alice was driving. There is a line that reads:
09/19/06 22:52 00:02 Completed Done!

What does this mean?

It means that at a time when my life looked mundane and uneventful, at its heart was pure and intense tragedy. Irrevocable agony was taking place 3,000 miles away, while I clicked and dragged through the minutes.

I think Alice would be proud of my work. I think it was the creativity I shared with her that helped me produce the site as it is today at www.ppd-usa.com.

At the same time, she likely would have felt competitive with me, as a sibling naturally would.

More songs

Today on the radio for the second time I heard that song by Nelly Furtado "Say it Right," and somehow I imagine Alice really liking that song. I like it, yes, and I can see Alice turning it up when she heard it. It's really breezy and catchy.

It's from an album that came out in 2004, so it's not impossible that she knew it. I wonder.

Of course, whenever I hear Natasha Bedingfield sing "Unwritten" I think of Alice. That was the song Tiffany wrote out for Alice's funeral.

Ping pong was on a list of what's "in" for 2007. Alice was ahead of her time.

I got it.

I got it. I dreamed again of Alice last night, and got one of my wishes.

Alice was returning from a journey on a bus, and I was waiting for her. I knew that soon she would leave forever, and in the first of two similarities to Sjoekje's dream, she didn't really know this.

She appeared, wearing white -- the other element shared in Sjoekje's dream -- and I charged at her, I didn't want to miss her. I immediately hugged her close to me, tight, and told her how very much I loved her, always. My words were certain, she knew I meant what I was saying.

Next thing I know, I'm back at my mom's house, where many visitors had brought dogs -- a reference to our New Year's Eve guests -- but in this scene I didn't mind, because I was blissful, having just had a wish granted to see, hug, and affirm my undying love to Alice.

I am feeling a little bit lighter today, with 2007 here and the increasing distance from 2006. Ironic when I look at my waistline.

Who are you seeing?

Sjoekje had a dream the other night, and told me about it. It's poignant, so I want to include it here, exactly as she e-mailed it:
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I had my first dream of Alice a couple of days ago. Although the details are muttled, I'll try my best to tell you about it.

It started off completely unrelated. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, teaching a blind man to drive. I was telling him where to turn, how to stay on the road, etc. (If you see "Music From Another Room", one of the characters teaches a blind person how to ride a bike. It can be either that or symbolically Alive and her accident...I'm not sure.) Well, we ended up at the bottom of the front gates at Rose Hills. At that point we were all instructed to get out of the car and walk the remaining way to the gavesite of our choice. I was thinking to myself, "Alice is burried so far from here. It's going to be a bitch to climb and walk all that way." I went inside one of the gift shops to gather my thoughts. The gift shop was gold and antique white, with very bright lighting and had a short spiral staircase to the open second floor (like a loft). Alice was standing in front of me on the first floor. Yet, I kept look up the entire time. I was telling her how I didn't really want to walk all that way and she told me, "Why are you even here at all? Who are you seeing?" I couldn't have the heart to tell her that it was her grave that I was visiting. All I saw was her smile and I was starting to well up with tears. Then, I woke up.

I guess I can say that perhaps me being in the passenger seat is me feeling out of control of myself, like the blind leading the blind? Maybe, the blind guy is the masculine energy of myself, telling me that I need to take more control and direction for myself. Perhaps the gift shop was so heavanly...like seeing Alice there was like a gift from God so to speak? I'm not too sure. I'm bad at interpreting dreams. There's more too look at, like rose and hills and what they independently mean. like the spiral staircase, the loft, the colors of gold, antique white and the bright light. But nonetheless, I had a dream of her and wanted to share it with you.
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Packing Up

We were packing to leave CA for NY last night and I found myself remembering Alice. I'm not going to reference the sorrow, pain and tears that accompanied my thoughts--I know, just did--because it seems I always do and it's getting tired.

Well, I'm tired.

I'm exhausted by Alice's absence. And my despair wears me down.

Searching for solace, for meaning in this tragedy, plumbing the depths of my consciousness to locate my relationship with Alice consumes me. I want her back so we can go on like we were meant to.

I've diverged from my original train of thought.

So as I was in my room loading luggage and making the bed, I was missing Alice. She would usually hang around during our departure, take advantage of last moments with L, and help however she could. I never told Alice how special those passing minutes were for me.

Instead, I closed myself off to make leaving hurt less. Alice was able to revel in the fleeting moments of our farewell, cherishing the time we were spending together. She'd ask when we were returning, why we weren't coming back sooner and talk about her plans to visit us in NYC.

There was none of this while I was packing up yesterday.

To be sure, it was different. My mom spent time sitting next to L in the backseat of the car. I had my memories of Alice to occupy me. And my beloved Peter was making sure everything was in order, that I was OK, that we would make it back home.

Someone, anonymously, submitted a comment to the last entry suggesting essentially that I appreciate my relationship with Sophie more. It's true I need to focus on those who remain here with me.

This photo, while a scan of a photocopy of the actual photograph, is definitely one of my favorites. Alice is all glamourous cheer!

Christmas Eve

I woke up from a dream this morning. The beginning is a little convoluted, so bear with me.

Peter and I were shopping, and we started talking with the store proprietor. We had received some plants at our doorstep with no note, and asked her if she had sent them to us. As she was answering, I heard Alice's voice.

It was hard to believe, so I cautiously turned the corner and looked downstairs; indeed, I more clearly heard Alice talking about her students and, there she was! Now in my mom's house, I actually jumped over the banister and floated down to the first floor from excitement.

I stood in the doorway and looked at Alice, she was her animated self, talking and laughing. Then I made eye contact with Sophie, incredulous. Going back and forth between Sophie and Alice for a moment, it was as if I were watching a tennis match.

With my eyes I asked Sophie if she realized what was going on and could she freeze this moment forever? Something was tugging me back upstairs and I had to will myself to stay a moment longer, not to let this eden end so soon.

I couldn't stand it anymore, I lunged for Alice and hugged her, pressing her head close to my face, running my fingers through her hair even though it wasn't really socially acceptable. I had missed her so f`cking much, I wanted to feel her as much as I could. The pulling force got stronger, and I quickly floated away.

This is when I came to consciousness, although my eyes were still closed. I wailed in my sleep. We're visiting Peter's family and I expected everybody could hear me, I couldn't hold back. Again, it dawned on me that I would never. again. see or be with Alice.

People feel closer to their deceased loved ones when they are sad, I've been reading. As I hold back my tears in typing this, however, my grief still feels very painful.

In time I hope I will accept these apparitions as a means to remain connected with Alice.

Whimsical

My mom, Peter, L and I went to Rose Hills today; I had been wishing to go since we were there last in October. As soon as we got off the freeway, my mom said she wanted to get Alice flowers, that she had forgotten to pick roses from the garden for this occasion.

I stopped the car at a florist along the route, and as we stepped out of the car, my mom remarked that she wanted to get a pinwheel for Alice. She chose 3, and at $1.75 each, I was relieved that the shop didn't overcharge us because of their proximity to the cemetary.

When we got to Alice's grave site, I saw that her tombstone had been set. It read:
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Cherished daughter
sister, aunt
ALICE CHAHINIAN
1970 + 2006
-----
Where the + sign is actually a cross. I stared at it, as if the longer I looked, the more real this shocking event would feel. We planted the pinwheels in the grass, and I adjusted them so that they could catch maximum wind and spin jovially for Alice. They did, and the sight of the three together was rather whimsical.

The number three could represent the number of children my mom has had, or it could be for the father, the son and the holy ghost, it could also be that this was the number of different colors of pinwheels the florist carried.

I wept for the emptiness inside my being, for the relentless pain that I'm left with, for yearning so damn much to be with Alice.

Alice. Dear, Alice.

In Images

I've been scouring the house looking for photographs of Alice. I want a framed one to hang in the apartment somewhere central. Here are some gorgeous ones I came across. Remember her vitality? She's vibrant in every single image.

If you click on an image, you'll see a slightly larger version.

When Alice visited my mom, you could usually find them on this swing in the backyard.

We had fun, just hanging out on the driveway.

Just chilling, in my mom's backyard circa 1998.

My dad and I, as the two men in Alice's life. Would you believe these days I look worse than in this picture? Mourning does that to a person.

Alice, all smiles. Meanwhile I'm worried about the camera's self-timer.

My mom had a barbecue in May 2004. Lately Alice wasn't much of a drinker, actually.

Alice beaming in front of her Jeep. Damn it.

What kind of world is this if Alice doesn't live in it anymore?

I don't know.