He lay back quietly, hands crossed high upon his chest beneath his chin. Flat on his back on the long leather couch, ankles crossed, he gazed out the kitchen window into the bare tree-tops. Thick masses of black limbs against gray, late-fall sky.
In fact, most of the window was hidden behind the high back of the couch and the large conical shade of the reading lamp which rose at the corner where the two lengths of couch formed a right triangle. A thin sliver of sun burnt through the gray overcast, penetrated the limb-mass, and outlined the bottom curve of the lampshade.
He lay there, his mind empty, his chest quietly falling and rising beneath the few panes of the sliding glass-door that framed the gray sky. No moan of wind. No movement among the tightly interlaced branches. His eyes focused there, upon the mass of high trunks giving way to the top-most branches. Black against gray.
Still early morning in the silent house. He'd risen at first light -- restless, but lazy. No plans until early afternoon when the entire family'd assemble and rush the Peace-Corps grand-kids off to the airport for their flight back to Romania. First, two hours to Chicago, then a 12-hour flight to Munich, then a short wait for their connection to Timisoura, Romania. . .their home away from home for some seven months more. A twenty-hour trip. Tiring. Still, the kids had each other.
For the moment, he lay there waiting. All cozy, stomach fulla warm oatmeal. Mind idle. Could be he'd let go. . .doze off again.
But then the poem popped into his mind. . .e e cummings. Cued by the mass of high branches, the lines rolled out. Just the words. . .came out of his head with little of the outlandish typography so typical of eddie estlin cummings. Just the lines. . .grouped the way they made sense to him:
I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart.
I'm never without it. Everywhere I go, you go, my dear,
and whatever is done by only me, is your doing,
my darling. I fear no fate. For you are my fate my sweet.
I want no world. For beautiful you are my world, my true.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant.
and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
and here is the deepest secret nobody knows:here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide.
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.
I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.
Something like that. Pretty close anyway.
The poem had haunted him throughout the past seven years: the three heart-crushing years of Nancy's long dying and death. . .the four grief-filled years that followed. Right up to this present moment.
He realized she was irretrievably gone. Yet, notwithstanding that irreversible fact, she remained persistently alive. Present, yet elusive. Always actively alive in his mind. . .just as she had always been during their idyllic, thirty-seven-year marriage.
He awoke every morning without her warm form in his arms, or perhaps she was behind him snug and spooned, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders beneath the covers. He'd cock his head sleepily, glance quickly around, squint into the darkness, yawn and grope about. Where was she? Surely in the bathroom. Down in the kitchen? . . Surely somewhere close by.
Then he'd suddenly remember. . .each passing month with less pain, acknowledging, making what peace he could with the stark fact of her absence.
The sudden memory came increasingly more lightly as time passed. At some point in the transformation, he began to think his forgetting a good thing. . .began to think he was somehow conjuring her presence, as if forgetting she had died was somehow a strange way of keeping her alive. . .keeping her present to him.
During the unfolding months of his grieving he had learned to summon her to him, even keenly feel her presence. The process seemed little different than when she was alive. She taught high-school health and coached young female athletes. He taught at a nearby university. In quiet moments during his office hours -- and even in his classroom when he taught -- during interludes where his students were working together in groups. . .during such times, his mind would shift, and he'd summon her presence. And there she'd be: present, real, accessible. Warm and smiling.
True: they'd had a special bond. Paid attention to each other. Worked together. Helped each other with household and gardening chores. Played tennis, skied, biked, took long walks. Theirs had been an extraordinary friendship.
Then came breast cancer that spread to her liver. During those terrible final months she released him: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. Be happy. Loving as you have loved me is the best thing you do."
He promised her he'd try.
But the effort he promised had soon became a fool's errand. During the nearly four decades he'd loved her, not once had he seen a woman like her: warm and loving, brilliant and beautiful, supremely attractive, youthful and compelling. Always interesting. Always interested in him. And he was already 72 at the time of her death. True: all his life he'd been an athlete: had worked-out, practiced yoga, hiked and biked, ate well and sparingly, remained vigorous and healthy. Constantly tested his body. He studied and stayed abreast of research in his field. . .in every way he could think of, he worked hard to live-UP to her, and hold her love.
Still, after her death, he realized that even had he found the woman she hoped he might, it was highly unlikely any such new woman would find him interesting and attractive. He was aging, after-all
The Cummings poem haunted him as much as did she. Her death had shattered him. Indeed, Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. He fell into a largely solitary existence, continued his physical regimen, read and studied, exercised and stayed physically fit. He traveled to visit old friends.
Best thing: their youngest daughter had a stretch of bad luck. She and her two gorgeous-bright sons moved into his large and beautiful home. Here's my recommendation: you ever hit a hard patch, bring your striking daughter and her five and seven year-old sons into your home. Bring as well her new best friend. Lots of astonishingly good things'll happen, but the laughter alone will save your life.
But in much the same way as when he and Nancy lived together and loved, after her death he carried her heart with him. . .the core of her, snug and safe in his heart. And over time the meaning of those difficult e. e. cummings lines became increasingly more clear to him. He felt and understood those powerful lines:
. . .here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide. . . .
The facts of life are unyielding and immense, immutable and impersonal. Death and pain are real. They come to us all. Life spares no favorites. Nancy lost the life she loved. She was blameless. Yet the cure he hoped for Nancy was not forthcoming. Nor can he hide the fact of her death. Still, he CAN carry her with him safely in his heart.
And though his life as a widower is not yet good.
It's steadily getting better than he had ever dared hope!
No comments:
Post a Comment