Always

At the end of miles and miles of winding country roads, past farms both sprawling and humble, tall corn and bulky cows rumbling and ruminating in their fields, past the plenties of rich red sumac and sunny goldenrod, past the darkest wines and palest pinks of hydrangea, through brief breezestorms and eddies of the first falling leaves, that catch light as they swirl and scatter in front of me, past all this is Alex in his last place, in the lovely business of his new season: rest, and calm, solace and reward, a return to earth and all its light, color, movement overflowing.

His small grave stands in a military row, at ease between two very old servicemen, Frank and Winston, who died around the time he did, and I like to think that maybe he had a chance to meet them on his way; he always did like to talk with old soldiers.

He’s gone from what we call life.  But no one told me that if you lean your cheek lightly against the face of a gravestone that’s been sunning itself in a field on a clear afternoon in late summer, the marble is warm as living flesh.  And if you lean in and touch cheek to grave, and close your eyes and breathe quietly, it’s exactly the sensation of leaning on the smooth bare sun-warmed shoulder of a man you loved.

Living Things

The ivy is growing back, on the wall across from Alex’s spot, the kitchen window where he sat often and for hours, playing guitar or reading Terry Pratchett, or just watching the birds at their birdy business in the soft green.  In 2007, the building owner put hired men to work cutting that ivy away, we never knew quite why.  We watched as it came down in huge veils, to land in, and then smother, our little yard.  I cried and cried from the loss; there was nothing left but a terrible bare city wall.  Alex promised me that one day it would come back, because ivy on stone always does.  It grows again, climbing slowly and steadily over the years, until one day it’s as if it had always been there.

Yesterday I brought my girl to college.  I helped her pack her beautiful clothes, carefully, in boxes.  I made sure she has an electric kettle for hot chocolate on cold rainy days, when I’m not there to make it for her (“you make the best hot chocolate, mama!” even though it always came from packets).  We loaded the car without a fight, no tears or recriminations, no stubbed toes, no hassles, it all fit perfectly.  We drove two hours, we didn’t get lost.  We joked, we laughed.  It was time.

I can usually find the words to tell a story.  I can usually find its center, and its movement and meaning.  The metaphor and the narrative.  Today, it’s just these facts: He’s gone.  She’s gone.  The ivy grew back.  Here I am.