Last Weekend in Three Photos

On Friday evening, entering the mall to run errands, I noticed this sign.   I immediately read it as, "One world separates," and thought, sarcastically, "Partition--at a discount!"  I have been transcribing interviews with family members who experienced the 1947 Partition of India, so the Partition has been on my mind a lot.

Crossing the street in Chicago on Saturday afternoon to attend a performance of The Book of Mormon, I looked up and saw this huge sign (a 2011 piece by Kay Rosen).  After watching the musical about missionaries in Uganda, I thought again about the idea of "doing good" for others.  What do we intend?  And what actually happens?

On Sunday morning, I read the paper on the deck, a favorite weekend ritual.  When I got up to go in, I looked down at the table and saw this. 

Looking up

I have been working on the patio of the neighborhood coffee shop, sitting in the sun to stay warm on this unusually cool August day. Just now, getting ready to pack my books and head to campus for a meeting, I happened to tilt my head back and look up. This is the sight I had nearly missed.

Grounding

           The landscape changing before my eyes—that is what I had hoped to see this summer on our twelve-day road trip through Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, ending at the Grand Canyon.  On the way back, we were considering stops in Colorado and Kansas.  Thirty-six hours before we were to leave, our clothes were packed—unusually early—and most of our hotel reservations were made.  Then the phone rang, and the landscape of our summer and of our lives changed.  Marilyn’s brother Mo was missing.  Twelve days later, we found out that he had died by suicide in the woods not far from his home. 

            I know I have written about this before.  Those twelve days and the news we received at the end of them were so strange, so unexpected, so devastating that I expect I will write about them again and again, if only to try to make them more real. 

            Even as we cope with Mo’s death, we are figuring out how to ground ourselves in our lives, how to go on. 

            All through June, we made hour-and-a-half-long trips back and forth across the flatland on Route 72 to meet with detectives, to search for Mo, to plan the funeral, and then to attend the funeral.  The landscape did not change, but the skies did.   

            At the end of June, we drove west on 72 one more time, this time to celebrate Marilyn’s aunt Dorothy’s 90^th birthday; the invitation had come before Mo had ever gone missing.  We weren’t sure how we would do at a birthday celebration.  But seeing cousins and siblings again sounded comforting.  On the way there, we drove through a rainstorm—and then drove out of it, as is so common here in Central Illinois.  As I looked at the sky, ominously grey in the east and showing blue in the west, I realized I was once again seeking a metaphor for our grief. 

            The flatland grounds me. 

So does our newly remodeled kitchen.  Recently, I labeled jars and organized spices on the shelves of the narrow cabinet to the left of the stove.  I was proud of myself for tossing out spices that were old, for letting go.  And I found satisfaction in organizing what was left so that it would be easy to use.  I did all this on our new, bright white countertop. 

            This week, our nephews, ten-year-old twins, are visiting us.  This visit was also planned before Mo’s disappearance.  The countertop is now a place to experiment with the slime the twins bought at the dollar store last summer, when they were also here for Aunty Camp.  Boxes of sparklers and the twins’ novels and math exercises cover the kitchen table.  Occasionally, the boys break into the theme song for Gilligan’s Island, the 1960s TV show their “Aunty Mellon” introduced them to and which they now love.  Cutting up a peach for Sanjay and combing Sameer’s hair after his shower ground me.  I hear Marilyn giggling with them and am grateful for this reminder that life goes on, that we will all go on. 

 

The twins read every night.  They sleep on the floor at the foot of our bed.

The boys each have a cow they chose at the bookstore at Cedar Crest College, where they met me when I went out east for my 25th reunion.  The cows traveled to the Midwest with them and have had many adventures.  In a rare, quiet moment, Spotty here was reading A Midsummer Night's Dream.  The children's capacity for play and delight has been a comfort to Marilyn and me.

A Storm of Grief

The summer storm we had this afternoon seemed to reflect the emotions we have been feeling since Marilyn's brother Mo disappeared.  We found out late on June 6 that Mo had been missing since June 3.  Then followed twelve agonizing days, days of talking with patient and skilled county detectives, of looking at satellite maps to plan a search of the nearby tree lines, and walking some of the tree lines ourselves with Marilyn's younger brother, John, and sister, Kate, who flew in from Virginia to help.  And not finding Moey.

This afternoon’s storm felt like it arrived suddenly—like Moey’s disappearance.  The wind whipped the lavender and tore through the trees.  And then the rain came.  Heavy, loud rain that temporarily flooded flower beds where the soil had been caking in the dry heat.  It was a relief.  The noise, the strength of it, the disruption of it felt like the news of Mo’s death.   

We received that news, like the news of his disappearance, also after ten at night, also while sitting on the couch, up past our usual bedtime because Marilyn was off from work.  This phone call brought relief and heaving sobs.  The not knowing had ended. 

But so had the hope.  He really was gone now.  The detectives had found his body in the woods--not the woods we'd been searching in--during a training exercise, and he had died by suicide.  He had chosen to leave.  We could no longer imagine him walking up his driveway one day and getting in his truck.  He was gone.

The storm today left the air cool, the plants drenched.  I’m hoping it’s a metaphor for our grief.   Maybe, after this storm we are in, where sometimes the tears are so many, we can’t see, maybe after this, we will find peace like the cool air after the rain today. 

 

 

Comforts of Cooking

This morning, I made blueberry and apple pancakes and then was able to wash the dishes in the kitchen sink--the first time after the kitchen remodel. On tough days, making pancakes grounds me, and making them for Marilyn helps me feel even better. We still have no word of Marilyn's brother, Mo, who has been missing for more than two weeks. I expect I'll be making pancakes often.

Just what I needed

Yesterday around noon, while walking in the prairie, I came across these white flowers along a fence. Their peaceful beauty was just what I needed.

(If you know what these flowers are called, please let me know.)