Then comes the day the mourning is over.
Missing exists, but it doesn’t have the melancholy sound on it.
(no, you are not intriguing but you just want to use that word)
You cliché-like move on.
You turn another page.
Her steps were serene, last time when we candeled the lanterns together at the graveyard.
Today children’s steps were furious at the same graveyard. They wanted to play tag and what could be better place for that. Long alleys to run.
'Please, do behave' I said, 'this is cemetery, you see!'
What harm was running, after all. My own steps were determined. I noticed that, too.
And missed her slow walk. I missed her.
I learned a new word: filange.
It is a mental onomatopoeia.
'You are a filange!'
'What do you mean?'
There we go.
'See this particular particle?'
'Ummm, not… around where?'
'In this particular accelerator?'
'You lost the particle!'
'Well, not exactly, I use them.'
I love Emily Bishop’s One art. It is about losing. Losing so hard you make it art. At her time people lost rivers and continents. And desired people of course, that is what the poem is about.
Nowadays instead of losing we easily have surplus. There is a big spare there in information. It is not lost, rather can you lose in it. Googling Emily Bishop I found a lot of details but didn’t found her book printed and available in 100 km radius. But ha, the poem was cited in a book ‘In her shoes’ By Jennifer Weiner so I targeted to that. Managed to right library to find out it was categorised under entertainment. Not crime. Not fiction. Light, romantic, often sexually intended entertainment. Of course, male authors writing sex write fiction, female write entertainment. Art of categorizing.
You should not approach desired things too promptly but light enough steps. In the library I narrowed to the right shelf stopping randomnly at the walls before that. (Twilight inspired knitting patterns, really!). Eventually got to the right shelf, but started to the opposite corner from W as Weiner. Ahern, Clark, Kelly, Simonson, Weisberger. Then Weiner. Art of approaching.
The book was not there. It should have been. The computer system told me: in that library under that category under the letter W shoud sit ‘In her shoes’.
'Books don't walk away, do they? I asked librarian little disappointed. She didn't get the question. I didn't continue with lost rivers, continents, or a book not yet found. Lightly pursued is lightly lost. Is that Art of life.
We were going through the old flowerpots. Me, my daughter and her. She said to me ‘remember you gave these to me last summer before your holiday?’ I instantly started to cry. There, in the dream, where she was with me. ‘Hey you, don’t you be sad’ she said, not quite understanding why I was crying. I had no words to describe her I was missing her because knew I she was dead, living only in that dream.
Weird thing happened.
My mother started to descripe the flowers on her parents graves.
I could have said ‘Yes I know, the congrecations are not really taking care of them and they look empty and abandoned and that is why I am taking care of her grave’.
I did not say anything.
Because you just can’t share the experience of taking care of one’s mother’s grave, not with your mother.
And it made me sad. Utmost sad things are to draw a cross to a funeral program and to discuss about flowers on the grave.
Lowest point so far was the ride home from her place. They called me one day before telling I had a change to pick some minor details, if I wish, next day from 1.00 to 2.00. As if my memories would have been in major details, they were not. They were in those tiny bits everywhere. I collected what I could and drew back. On my way home I cried. Though it was not crying, it was wailing aloud. Hardly could drive. In a luxury of private, in my car.
(Still wonder how I managed to put myself together to evening soiree.)
Ever since the car has been a place for crying. It starts fast and stops few minutes later. Just like kids cry; the mouth turns down, jaw themblers and tears fill the eyes. Then you sob. Then I sob. I seem to repeat ‘why did you leave me alone’. Alone is not excatly what I am, I am hardly ever alone, literally. Mentally I am alone. I lost the only person who had boundless faith of good on me. To everybody else I am a fullfiller of their needs. Hence hardly ever alone.
My son woke up one morning and told me he saw the dream when she was alive. She offered him fishsandwiches. ‘Fish, really?’ I asked. ‘Yes, she had no other birthdaypresent.’ I know it bothered her not giving a present to him.
I know, sense merely, she bought them in Florida. Never did we get them. Like so many other things we did not get. Not anything major. Major things are fullfilling other people’s needs. Let them have been cravy.
The other night I woke up and saw unbelonging people standing in the small room we were staying at. I knew it was just my sleepy mind that made the scene. I closed my eyes and opened them after a while. Still there was a dark figure standing by my daughter. I didn’t see the face, just figure. ‘Must be Betty’ I thought.
'Betty dear', I said silently, ' do not take my daughter!'
She did not move, did not hear, she was not taking her. She was protecting her. I stared and stared and the image did not go away. I fell asleep again and in the morning it was gone.
I was not frightened at any moment.
Just had lunch with husband. Walking back full of zest of life. Sun was bright and warming. Food was good. I got a compex ideas in a good order. I just finished thinking luckily the crying times are behind.
Then I remembered the scene. And started to cry.
Still it was rather unfamiliar, not scary.
Being very depressed yesterday I managed a bath to me. I bought the Laura Ashley scented candle. I picked up the lightweight-yet-interesting book. It helped.
You loved to swim but you didn’t bath. You brought the water animal set from Spain, they are there. We bought the monsterous water pistols last summer at your cottage, that hot day it was. These made bathing interesting to my son who joined me soon after I started the book.
Laying there I thought the elderly survival equipments I saw earlier the day. Beds with edges, beds without edges. Lifting and moving cupboards. How dare you be afraid I would not be there to help you. And more painfully, I feel quilty not communicated that clear enough to you. As your leaving is my fault.
It is not.
But never thought that a minute when my parents divorced.
The other day I was so desperate I said I want to follow you.
After saying it I realised we are not supposed to ask for things we do not really want. I want to live.
Then I was sure, after saying that, that I will die.
I paid a visit to a city nearby, it was snowy day. I was sure it is my last day. I was surprised to arrive home safely.
Yesterday I was away with 42 kids. I prayed nothing would happen to me or to them. Nothing did.
I certaily got a trauma of sudden deaths.
I also got a very strong feeling wanting to be alive.
I wish to have just few more discussions with you.
I wish to have just one more hug.
Human nature is insatiable. Which prooved here.
I can look at your picture now. Flipping them through is too painful. But I miss you so much.
I went to see a doctor for cardiological diseases; it was gastroentero problems.
I went to see a dentist for a broken tooth; not even a hole.
You never had problems with heart or teeth. But you had to diet from coffee. I transformed this to me rejecting cardiological threats coming from DNA.
I started to plan a music for your funeral. I am so lost. Hope to find a perfect way. I don’t accept ‘nobody cares really’! Life is just about caring, nothing else matters!
I was so desperate I yelled God to help last night.
"In nothing be anxious, but in everything, by prayer and petition with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your thoughts in Christ Jesus. “
You think you know what sorrow is and then you don’t.
Your heart is ripped off. Your mind blowing. Your body shivering.
And yet you know that this is only the first chock. The sorrow comes later.
First days are blind. After a while you see a climpse of things people normally keep reasonable. They are entirely meaningless to you.
You yell at night ’where are you’. Then you wake up and remember and burst into tears.
You think ancient people who personised death were wise. They created somebody to hate to.
You know she is in heaven now. She just jumped to the lap of God beside her missed husband. Can you blame her for that?
You open email and think has anybody proved emails don’t catch heaven?
You say that aloud.
People are concerned of your mental health. You lightly recognise that but don’t care.
You go to see a doctor.
Doctor takes an EKG to show your heart is ok. A blood sample so that you are not expiring.
You eat your digestion pills and feel strong.
You are strong enought to make few more phonecalls.
You find out people who want to know because knowing is power and they like to be powerfull.
You also find people who doesn’t like power but care.
You think being lucky finding them now.
Yet you serve a funeral to everybody.
The day she met that piece changed her life. It was a dark and foggy day, she was bored and wandered around in YouTube. Mozart for the mood, then Liszt. Starting with Liebenstraum she ended to the sonata.
Love at first hearing. She played it again and again. She bought the notes the same day. It took some months, years actually, but eventually she learned to play it.
After the first time she got the whole masterpiece through without interruptions, she cried. ‘This is it, this is me, he must have made this for me’ she thought, referring to Liszt as him.
The Sonata became an unseparable part of her life. Boyfriends were tested with the music. She asked ‘how do you like Liszt?’ ‘Medium rather than raw, ha ha.’ answered one poor fellow and had no possibilities.
'I don't care about boyfriends, not as much as the Sonata' she answered to her mother who was worried after another dumped prospect. 'But honey, the sonata is not bringing you life nor kids!' mother said. 'Well, the Sonata is my life, I don't need other lifes' she answered.
Of course she finally found a guy who enjoyed the Sonata. They got married, they got kids. Not that life would have then started. Her love just widened to other directions.
She found a proper workplace. ‘You keep talking and talking’ she thought in boring meetings. ‘I don’t care. I have something else, I have more. I have my Sonata.’ She thought that especially when the meetings got a nasty articulation. ‘If only you would hear me playing the Sonata, you would not talk to me like that’ she thought.
This came her mantra. She categorised people to whom she would play the Sonata and to whom she would not. But she never did perform it to anybody except the family that heard it by nature.
'Why on earth you stuck in that piece, change it, move on!' her husband said. But she found no reason to do so. The Sonata was the core of her life.
The outer shelters of her life grew up. They moved on, they moved away. ‘Oh mother, we will miss you playing your Sonata!’ the kids said when flying away from the nest. ‘I can play it in your weddings’ she said. ‘Well… ’ they said, glancing each other. ‘Maybe you will’. But she didn’t.
'I must play the Sonata to you some time!' she said to her colleagues. 'Yes, do!' 'In my retirement party if not earlier!' she said and laughed. The party came, she did not perform anything. It was a nice cup of coffee party.
'Life is too light!' she said to her husband. 'Is it really' he answered thinking all the heavy accords she specially loved in the Sonata. 'Yes, light and passes by too easyly !' she answered.
One day she realised she couldn’t remember the Sonata through anymore. It was a dark and foggy day. Weeks and months after that remained melancholic. Slowly but inevitably she said good bye to the Sonata. She didn’t want to and that made the process so sad.
The last accords she remembered were the last ones. Sweet, tender, despondent.
'Oh those accords, they are so you!' her friends said when she tried them with their pianos when visiting there.
Then she could not play even them.
'In my funeral, please arrange someone play the Sonata' she asked her family. They promised. But when the day came that they had to plan the funeral they discussed about it. 'It was her only wish!' 'But it is so long!' 'And do we know anybody who could play it!' 'I think Chopin funeral march is much more suitable' they finally decided.
But whenever anybody she knew hears the Sonata, they remember her. It is remembering, after all, that remains. Lightly and then disappears, as life.
And then the students came in.
I love my work even more!
It is a heartbeating feeling to notice ‘I can teach. I like teaching! They listen to me.’
I taught straight 3 hours without a brake. At the end I asked if they used to have breaks. ‘Yeah, every 40 minutes or so’.
I love when they hello and smile when meeting at the corridor. ‘Swedish words, this early at the morning!’ I bewared not to show my sympathy, swedish is i m p o r t a n t to learn, but just ‘you are doing it fine!’
I love when in same elevator they are shy and quiet. Once there alone I was staring at the mirror lifting the eyebrowns up in different ways, to consider which looked most professional. And then they came in. Shy and quiet and did not notice anything.
I love to explain once again the difference between target gross profit and needed money. See, that is very important!
Ex-work looks like a nightmare. I hope soon the anger has passed by. I still have silent battles with ex-collegues, ex-bosses. Nightmare yes, but without it I would not be here.
Now preparing next week. Cosy sitting and searching for sociology theories of ‘The art of financial welfare of human being’.