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.