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
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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.

What I Want, and Will Not Get

Maybe I'm talking about my Christmas list here. What I want is one more chance with Alice. If I had one, I would:

*Hug Alice, really embrace her, and not feel like running away to get it overwith.

*Tell her what a fantastic aunt she is, how much I appreciate the love she has given her niece, and how lucky L is to have her as a relative.

*Soothe her -- when she told me on L's first birthday that she was sorry for not getting her a present this year and would make up for it next year -- and tell her that indeed in July she got her niece an adorable Hello Kitty tank top and the cutest camouflage Hello Kitty skirt for her birthday, and how Boubrig loves wearing this outfit and how precious she looks in it.

*Forgive her for all of the meanness she directed toward me, for all of the pinches and scars she inflicted. I would ask her to forgive me for all of the times I hit her and for all the coldness and pain I hurled her way.

*Make a pact with her, that when she died we would open a line of communication so that we could still hear and talk to each other.

*****

Maybe L gets something special this year. While she has lost an aunt, she will now and forever have her Auntig Alice as a guardian angel. OK, maybe I get this same present, too.

Dear Dear Haig

I just found another watercolor underneath the previous one! This depicts six roses, and on the back is an undated message:

"Dear Dear Haig -
I love you. I'm very sorry about this evening. Let's try to make up for it tomorrow. I'll be back later tonight -- hope you'll be up, if not, sleep well & I'll see you in the morning light!
Love you,
Alice"

What a gift, I love it. While I don't remember what prompted the inscription, Alice's love is so obvious, and I hope I responded to her in kind. I imagine she left this in my bedroom for me to find as a peace pipe, a surprise one at that.

Reading the note, it feels like we were both hurt, that we had wounded each other. We certainly were good at doing that.

Thanks for the beautiful roses, Alice.

My Very Best Work!

Alice painted this rose around 1999 and gave it to me with the words on the back "My very best work! Hope it makes you smile! [smiley face] I [heart] u!"

I love the detail in the leaves. It's one of those big puffy roses in full bloom, and the scent almost comes off the canvas. My mom roses exactly this pink-lavender color in our front yard growing up. Alice, Sophie and I sometimes ate the petals in the morning before jumping in the Dodge Colt and being carted off to Armenian Mesrobian School.

I have it in a frame in our living room, and wanted to share it with the world.

Sweet Stuff

There was a pack of Freshen-up gum (like the visual aid?) in my closet when we moved recently. Alice had mailed it to me a year before, reminding me of a special treat we shared as children. My mom always insisted we chew Carefree Sugarless gum -- never mind that saccharine caused cancer in lab rats -- so on the special occasion when we could chew whatever gum we wished, we often chose Freshen-up. The sweet gel stuff inside was a special treat!

Alice and I liked to jog each other through pleasant recollections from our past, and so for our visit this past July I brought her "Greek gum" (see above), another staple from our days at Mesrobian. When we went to Andy's deli, my mom would pick up a pack of these sugar-white tabs that tasted so good! I recently saw on the ingredients list that the special ingredient is Mastic oil. Sends me right to the 4th grade.

While I continue to mourn Alice's loss in different ways, it's nice to remember the sweet stuff. I've heard that the good memories are what linger, and this blog is certainly helping me chronicle as many of them as I can process.

Last Night's Dream

At 4:23 a.m. this morning I was startled awake from a dream. I was sad as I realized what I had dreamt, but it was a more complicated sadness than usual.

I dreamt that I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my mom's house, feeling alone because my mom, dad, Sophie and Alice were all against me for some typical reason. Then Alice came into the room to antagonize me further, saying I was wrong about something -- I hate that the details aren't so clear to me.

My feelings of loneliness, ironically even in the presence of all immediate family members, were more enlightened than usual. When Alice approached me, she was doing so only as a representative of the rest of the family, and that this tension wasn't between her and me only. I had some patience for her, and resented the rest of the group for putting her up to this.

I retaliated by yelling back and throwing grape juice on her. When the juice hit her clothing, I noticed that her outfit was already a kind of berry color, and so the spill didn't make a big difference. However, I saw that the blue in the grape juice was permeating the red-based berry color; her top was turning bluer.

She reached for the coffee pot in the sink, and was attempting to douse me with the brown water and grounds when I suddenly woke up.

On one hand it felt like typical Alice that I couldn't get to her -- her clothes were already the general color of the juice. In my conscious state so early in the morning, I was reminded about the rage I could feel towards Alice, and wished that I could have felt more compassion towards her when she was alive, because I do believe she carried alot of aggression on behalf of all of us.

The meaning of the colors isn't so clear to me right now.

In a weird way, it felt good to have this dream, to re-live one aspect of being with Alice.

Come to think of it, I'm the blue one in her absence.

Pass it to Ben

We just got back from having Thanksgiving dinner with friends, and I'm still thinking about how Alice was there with us, in an odd, unexpected way.

Dessert time arrived, and among many sweets there was this big white cloud of cake, a frosted angel food with chunky shavings of coconut. Ben, the 14 year old son of family friends, loved this particular cake, so he was the first to be served. As Fred our gracious host plated a piece, he said "Pass this one to Ben" and I heard "Pass it to Ben" in Alice's voice.

Flash back a solid twenty five years -- boy, am I getting old -- when I was playing city-sponsored soccer one summer. Ben was Filipino, a tall fairly-skilled teammate of mine. During games, his mother would run up and down the sidelines yelling to all of us "Pass it to Ben! Pass it to Ben!" encouraging him to be a ball hog. My sisters and I got a big kick out of this, and since then Alice especially has loved saying "Pass it to Ben!" invoking a cheerful moment in our childhood.

I excused myself from the dining room and shed a few tears in the kitchen. It was a pretty big dinner, so it wasn't long before I was engaged in conversation with Ben's dad, actually. I was sad to miss for the rest of my life Alice's quick quips. Pass it to Ben, indeed.

Westgate Park

For Alice's 30th birthday back in 2000, Peter and I sent her 30 presents to celebrate. One of the presents was a poem I wrote, about a happy moment in our childhood, that she had on her refrigerator in San Diego on the last day of her life.

I thought I would reprint it here, in part because I'm scared I will lose the blue piece of paper on which it's written. It's called
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Westgate Park

Going over the hill
my pulse starts to race
in the Dodge Colt.

Look to the right
see the crowd gather
'round the wading pool
not yet wet.

Do you remember
the jet stream?
For ever young
Three tykes
Too excited
One summer.

Whoosh
Water whirls by in waves
Wait in line
My turn next
Sit and splash down
Cool exhiliration
to the center of the small sea.

Look ma
I'm swimming underwater

Like an angel with wings

Silently creating a masterpiece

Under the tree

With a watchful eye

over her young.

Hurry out

One more go

before it gets too deep

Watch out for the sprinklers

Water water everywhere

Not a moment to rest

until the pool closes.

Red cheeks and

Red eyes

Hi mama

Oh for heaven's sake

You kids really

overdid it this time

I want pita butter and jelly

First dry off

Give me my towel!

If you kids are good

We'll get ice cream at the dairy

Before your father gets home.

Next week

Let's come back

for goldfish.

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Alice read this poem to me over the phone about 6 months ago. She cried a little, and I was touched that she saw the love I meant to express in it. It was also a paean to our childhood, which while often wrought with pain and misery, had its blissful spots. Going to Westgate Park was definitely one of them.

Over the Grand Canyon

About two weeks after Alice died, I caught the last 20 minutes of Thelma and Louise on television. The ending brought a flood of tears because, well, Alice died in her car, too.

I mention this because yesterday morning I flew to CA for Alice's hokehankist (Armenian for "the resting of her soul" -- in the Armenian Apostolic tradition it's believed that it takes 40 days for the deceased's soul to rise to heaven) and the Grand Canyon featured prominently in my experience.

Usually I'm too occupied to notice beauty around me. Peter often points out the gorgeous light of the afternoon sun as it hits certain buildings, while I'm busy staring at the sidewalk. So on the flight yesterday I was immersed in When Will I Stop Hurting? Dealing with a Recent Death which Iris sent to me, when the captain announced that for the next 3-4 minutes we would be flying over the Grand Canyon to the right.

I thought "I've seen it before, I don't want to be bothered." Then, I thought of Alice. She appreciated the intense, and fleeting beauty of sunsets. Something so common that I overlook it, when its grandeur is truly rare. Alice could revel in the moment.

Dad's Heartbreak

My mom, my dad and I are going out to dinner tonight, an experience Alice would have loved. In her death, she brings her family together.

While the three of us were visiting at my mom's home yesterday, my dad recounted his experience of seeing Alice for the last time.

Before the funeral proceedings began in the Memorial Chapel at Rose Hills, dad asked if he could see Alice in her casket. The ushers obliged.

He said that she had a bruise on her face, from the impact of the car. He said that she was perfect.