Hello, Darlin’
For John and M.D. For
Mom and Dad
“A Little Bit Of Rhythm, And A Lot Of Soul”
I still remember
the clumsily stoned and grouted walls of the church, the high reaching
single-pointed ceilings and the watery stained glass windows letting unfamiliar
light reach the pews. I remember the sunstone daisies and sapphire hydrangeas,
and the veiled scenes of His last days that they blocked. The forty rows of
eighty-eight degree pews made of solid wood that kept my posture proper in the
presence of you, still upsets my back. I thought He of all people would be a
fan of lumbar support, but maybe they hurt so much to keep me fastened onto the
real; the here and now. I’m glad, because it was a hard concept for me. Seven
rows back from the marble-wooded lectern listening to stories of your past,
told by people who’d be around in my future, I was struggling to understand the
present. I sat and watched as you lay in a box, far too small for your spirit,
and I could only wonder if this would be the last time I saw you.
It
wasn’t.
We
didn’t talk of you for a while because the reality was far too raw. Life
changed for us; conversations once overwhelmed by story telling were far more
cautious in order to avoid bringing up any “M.D. stories”. Our Saturday night
family barbecue’s were a little more on edge, too, because as the compact disc
changer chose, blindly, the songs we would listen to, we’d always fear it would
come on. A few months down the road it did, and we all looked towards the back
of the yard and listened. We loved watching you “chug-a, chug-a” around the
blood-red brick border at the deepest end of the pool, leading the line
artfully along the crooked ground. It never mattered, shit show or sober, you
never missed a step. I can’t begin to tell you how excited we got every time
that song came on; our eyes frantically flooded the air until we found you,
usually alone, and usually seven steps ahead of us. Once you got those hips and
knees going in turn with your strategically bent arms you were a one-car train
that couldn’t be stopped, so we joined you. Somehow I knew that as we all
stared deep into the darkness, as the catchy melody poured over the crest of
our house and through the limbs of the un-cut trees, we all were watching you
again.
I’d
like to think I saw you that night, but I didn’t, because I wasn’t sure if you
saw me too.
A long time passed
until I thought I saw you again. All the way until the following October I
could have sworn you had gone for good. But October had always been a special
month, especially for my Mom. Each time the doorbell rang that month I got
desperately nervous and mildly upset at myself; it was times like those that I
regretted not ironing my shirts or changing out of my soda-stained khaki pants
(because the browns didn’t match). And each time the melody of the fight song
filled the downstairs and part of the upstairs hallway, my Mom would take a
deep breath, sigh and slowly walk towards the door. It was hard to watch, but I
knew what she was thinking. You’d always show up, like clock work, on any given
day except Halloween, yet still dressed in an excruciatingly confusing costume,
causing us to question, is this M.D.?
Naive, I know, because who else would “trick” at twelve thirty-three on a
random Tuesday afternoon, fifteen days before Halloween? Still, there was no
greater treat than you in your “Miss Piggy” costume complete with wiry blonde
hair taped to your smooth scalp. I’m sure as my Mom stood patiently, listening
to the man in khaki pants (stainless) and blue button-up short sleeve shirt on
our front porch, she was trying to picture you. I think I saw you from over her
shoulder, but I wasn’t too sure. I was still uncertain if you saw me too.
You must have
sparked some memories in my Mom, and later that night when I heard her crying
to my Dad, he must have been sparked too, because that weekend they taught me
to play 99. I was honored. Remembering that “older and up” club you used to run
downstairs after nine, when I was upstairs in bed supposedly attempting to go
to bed. Funny, because by nine fifteen I’d slink down the green carpet stairs
(this was back when the stairs were solid, so I couldn’t peek down and watch
you.) and turn the corner of the white wooden banister, all of you would be
looking right at me, surely wondering why it took me so long that night to come
down. You’d always let me watch so I’d stand between you and my Dad, with John
and my Mom in good sight.
It amazed me how
small you four made that brown table feel, while I stretched to see the top of
it. You and my Mom sat across from one another, and John and my Dad did too.
I’m not sure which of you were more cocky; you and Mom with your cute but
oh-so-devilish grins, when you either had the cards or didn’t (I think you were
the better bluffers). Or John and Dad when they licked and pasted the Ace of
Spades to their foreheads, just so you knew they had the card. I found it
funny. And no matter how much you thought you’d win, none of you ever seemed to
lose.
I learned, that
weekend, to play 99, and though it was only the three of us, I tried
desperately to picture you across from me. I thought you might be giving me
some wink or hint so I knew you had the right hand. And though the three of us
got lost in the empty space the chair created, I didn’t feel you looking back.
It stings me to
say it, but I think I gave up for a while. I figured there had to come a time
when I’d need to move on and let go, and stop trying to have you around. I even
took your song off my iPod, just so I didn’t run the risk of remembering you.
A lot happened in
the time I took off from my search for you. A lot happened to all of us. I was young
when you passed, and so were my parents, but we all aged a lot since then. I
can only speak for myself, even though I’m sure it applies to us all, but I was
having trouble with feeling alone. It’s not because my family wasn’t there for
me or because I didn’t have the close friends I needed, you’d know better than
any how blessed I was. I guess it was the light-hearted, free-flowing soul you
kept through the tough times and the good times that I was missing. I guess I
didn’t have long enough to learn from you.
Towards the end,
though you were subjected to a world of dry hallways, drawn shades and cold
blankets, you’re smile felt as pure as ever. It was reassuring. You always were
certain to convince us you’d never leave our sides
Luckily, you
didn’t.
A few months down
the road I couldn’t explain why the lights in the parking lot of the Golden
Gate Bridge were blinking on and off as I stared out into the unknown during
one of my many nights of self-reflection. Or even the lights up and down
Clement and Balboa, that seemed to switch from off to on, or vice-versa, each
time I’d drive towards them. I couldn’t explain why as the more troubled I got,
the more often the electricity seemed to be troubled in the places I was. It
took a while for me to understand.
Two weeks ago I
was driving on the 101 South, towards San Francisco. The traffic was almost as
thick as the rain that blurred my windshield (It reminded me of stained-glass
windows), and halfway home my back was aching, so I sat, upright, in my seat
staring straight ahead. I guess the circumstances reminded me of the church I
last saw you in because I started humming under my breath. You must have been
listening, because as I ascended the last hill of the highway the entire strip
of street lights were blinking on and off with “a little bit of rhythm, and a
lot of soul”.
I was glad I saw
you again. I was glad you saw me too.
I love you, M.D, and we
miss you John.
