It was that sadness I detected in your voice that made me realize you did not want a goodbye dinner with us because it was too emotional. Somehow, it made it easier for me to embrace your move once I understood you could not say goodbye in that way, either.
I remember the first time you visited our apartment. Sitting on the couch and fawning over the new puppy as Matthew sat next to you. I walked in carrying groceries and was appalled that I had not cleaned that morning, but the only thing you cared about was our 8-week old puppy romping around the floor at your feet. It was that night we were invited to a Christmas party at the neighbor's and you wore a large sparkling necklace that I admired. You laughed and told me it was an old Christmas decoration and invited me to see the art on the walls of your apartment. We walked together and I admired your artwork and it was then you began to tell me your life stories.
Our friendship neither grew quickly nor slowly. It just was. We visited one another's apartments, you with your dog and I with mine. You watched my pup grow, gave advice, and took him for countless walks when we worked during the day.
Weeks and months passed. We became fond of one another. You left us magazines at our doorstep and cards for our birthdays. I made sure to save you extra portions of our dinners and would scramble quickly to knock on your door in hopes you'd not yet eaten. You were kind to try the food either way.
We have sat at the huge window in your living room and looked out over the treetops and talked about life. We talked of the most intimate things, we talked of the silliest. You told me so many escapades of your youth that I decided I should want to write a story.
You took a fall and hurt yourself badly. You had to re-learn how to walk. And my dog and I visited you in rehab and you were so proud of how he'd grown.
I gave you a journal to record your memories.
We drove to restaurants, talked about sex, gave advice, were upset with one another, joked with each other, always helped the other with anything.
We went to the movies once, remember? You didn't like it because you cannot hear very well anymore. But we sat there together through the whole production and afterwards it was very late, but you wanted to go out with me. We went downtown and visited the cigar shop and spoke with friends. I held your hand to steady you as we walked along the uneven sidewalk.
Next week you will move. I have ignored this fact for as long as I am able. Yet tonight you told me that this weekend you will come and drop off a desk you want us to have and you will say hello and goodbye and that will be it. You will leave.
You will drive to Florida and move into your retirement home.
No longer will I bring you food next door. Never again will I see you out for mail or rap on your door in my ski socks and pajama bottoms in hopes to talk about life. These are treasured memories, my friend. They tell the story of how you helped me learn was it is to be a woman, a business owner. You encouraged me to be myself. You are a part of the first years of our marriage, you are the third owner of our dog. You are one of my dearest friends.
You are only moving, I know.
But oh, how you will be missed.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Tuesday
I showed the last one of you out the door and locked it behind you, reentered the kitchen to sweep and mop, to clean the machine, to wash and sanitize the dishes.
Standing alone against the harsh kitchen florescence, the mood was melancholy in the quietest way, but I fought the desire to easily yield myself to it. Crossing the store to turn on the music was a good decision and soon Bob Dylan's voice seized the airwaves. And so I scrubbed dishes. And so, of course, I thought.
It began with the steam wands, determining whether I'd yet cleaned them out. I thought about the other necessities in closing the store: disinfecting the toilet bowl, restocking the napkin dispenser and the like. I thought about how good our soap display in the corner smells.
The tasks were quickly completed. It was a last-minute decision to make a hot chocolate for the drive downtown and when I walked outside the wind ripped across my cheeks and I greedily gurgled hot chocolate into my mouth to warm me.
I took the Spruill Avenue route. And whether it was the cold dark night or that forsaken Snow Patrol song on the radio, or the intervals of hot chocolate sips, I do not know. But whatever it was brought a surrealism to the short 10-minute drive. The darkness was penetrating and the people on Spruill avenue continued. They continued to ride the Carta bus and exit it in groups, yelling and laughing and walking home. They continued to walk with a saunter across the road wearing dark clothes and foolishly putting themselves in danger. They continued to sit and watch, smoke their cigarettes, hold a daughter's hand as she in a bulky pink jacket waddled along.
The darkness was briefly pierced by stoplights and an occasional floodlight, everything washed in tones of sepia and sometimes black and white. I saw to my left a flashy building with the bright, white word "Polished" laden across its painted gray bricks. To the right was a homeless man and his shopping cart. I drove on.
Eventually I entered downtown and found a spot to park and planned to get out of the car. But the wind ripped and its harsh howls convinced me to curl into the driver's seat and hold my knees to my chest. I was now down on King Street, parked and waiting and watching people as they walked by with loved ones, with drinking buddies, by themselves.
I called an old friend.
And for the next 1 hour, 22 minutes, and 47 seconds I sat in the car and was reminded of what good people I am granted to know. A 69-year old woman who, best friends with my mother, had a part in raising me, who I have not spoken to in a very long time, and who answered her phone at 9:00 on a Tuesday night.
And we spoke and we laughed. We laughed so hard as we reminisced together, she at her kitchen table or perhaps on a couch and I in my car, huddled and holding my knees closely. We spoke of travels, and her children, of my business, and our families. We asked one another if we'd painted recently and realized that neither one has. And then we remembered years ago, a vacation when we awoke early and took our canvases and paints to the beach and sat in the sand and watched the sun rise. We painted what we saw. We spilled paint across the grains and onto our skin and we laughed so hard.
"I still have those paintings hanging on my wall," she said.
Standing alone against the harsh kitchen florescence, the mood was melancholy in the quietest way, but I fought the desire to easily yield myself to it. Crossing the store to turn on the music was a good decision and soon Bob Dylan's voice seized the airwaves. And so I scrubbed dishes. And so, of course, I thought.
It began with the steam wands, determining whether I'd yet cleaned them out. I thought about the other necessities in closing the store: disinfecting the toilet bowl, restocking the napkin dispenser and the like. I thought about how good our soap display in the corner smells.
The tasks were quickly completed. It was a last-minute decision to make a hot chocolate for the drive downtown and when I walked outside the wind ripped across my cheeks and I greedily gurgled hot chocolate into my mouth to warm me.
I took the Spruill Avenue route. And whether it was the cold dark night or that forsaken Snow Patrol song on the radio, or the intervals of hot chocolate sips, I do not know. But whatever it was brought a surrealism to the short 10-minute drive. The darkness was penetrating and the people on Spruill avenue continued. They continued to ride the Carta bus and exit it in groups, yelling and laughing and walking home. They continued to walk with a saunter across the road wearing dark clothes and foolishly putting themselves in danger. They continued to sit and watch, smoke their cigarettes, hold a daughter's hand as she in a bulky pink jacket waddled along.
The darkness was briefly pierced by stoplights and an occasional floodlight, everything washed in tones of sepia and sometimes black and white. I saw to my left a flashy building with the bright, white word "Polished" laden across its painted gray bricks. To the right was a homeless man and his shopping cart. I drove on.
Eventually I entered downtown and found a spot to park and planned to get out of the car. But the wind ripped and its harsh howls convinced me to curl into the driver's seat and hold my knees to my chest. I was now down on King Street, parked and waiting and watching people as they walked by with loved ones, with drinking buddies, by themselves.
I called an old friend.
And for the next 1 hour, 22 minutes, and 47 seconds I sat in the car and was reminded of what good people I am granted to know. A 69-year old woman who, best friends with my mother, had a part in raising me, who I have not spoken to in a very long time, and who answered her phone at 9:00 on a Tuesday night.
And we spoke and we laughed. We laughed so hard as we reminisced together, she at her kitchen table or perhaps on a couch and I in my car, huddled and holding my knees closely. We spoke of travels, and her children, of my business, and our families. We asked one another if we'd painted recently and realized that neither one has. And then we remembered years ago, a vacation when we awoke early and took our canvases and paints to the beach and sat in the sand and watched the sun rise. We painted what we saw. We spilled paint across the grains and onto our skin and we laughed so hard.
"I still have those paintings hanging on my wall," she said.
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