Reveries
It is quite chilly in our bedroom this Sunday morning. It is late in the month of October. I really need to switch on the heat, but each year I vow that I will not do so until the last day of the month. Each year I break my vow, for I get too cold.
I am wrapped in my old warm dressing gown. I know I should get a new one, but I have not found another one that appeals to me. The new one must be soft, warm, and comfortable, just like this one. My hands are cold, as are my ankles. I have cuddled into my pink armchair that Picasso has usurped. It is Sunday, and the pups want nothing to do with me, for Kelly is home. They are now in the park, having their Sunday get-together with other dog owners and dogs. That is the reason I get to curl up here. I was reading a Persian book which has been translated into English as I listen to my classical radio station. They put on a piece that my father loved. I stop reading. I smile as I listen. In my memory, I go back to my youth. I sit with my father, listening to classical music which softly fills the room. Papa stands, brush in hand, at his easel, dabbing oil paint on the prepared canvas. He has a pipe in his mouth. Every once in a while, he makes a soft sucking sound on the pipe as he inhales. The smell of his tobacco mixed with the oil paints was quite pleasing to me. He used to open his new tins of tobacco and mix apple skins with them. He took such pleasure in that task. He spent hours preparing his tobacco and packing them back in tins. I still have one of his tins. I store my sewing pins in it. ‘Three Nuns,’ reads the top.
A year or two after he passed away, I was in a drugstore. On one aisle, I smelled the aroma of his tobacco. I stopped. I inhaled longingly. The memory of Papa flooded over me. I felt a huge jolt of pain pass through my being. It felt so deeply physical that I hugged myself tightly and doubled up. My eyes welled with hot tears which ran down my cheeks unchecked. “Oh Papa! Oh Papa, how I miss you,” I thought, then I became aware of my surroundings. Embarrassed, I rubbed my tears away with a clenched fist. I straightened myself out and quickly hurried out of the store.
Mama had been in a shell that imprisoned her for many years. They had found a tumor on top of her pituitary gland in her brain. They pulled her skull apart and put it back again, but nothing was the same. It was as if they were incompetent electricians. Everything went wrong. Her body had deserted her. She could not move. She could not speak. She had to have pap food, for she could not chew. Only her eyes were alive; only they spoke to me. We were angry at what she had become! She was a wonderful human being! She did not deserve this! When she finally died after twelve years of that cruel imprisonment, all I felt was relief. She was at last free to be the beautiful, wonderful person that she always had been. I imagined Papa floating down from heaven, taking her by the hand, leading her as they flew back to a place that has no worries, no pain, just a place filled with peace.
Then Peter passed away. “He abandoned me!” I sobbed again. My brother Jacky angrily responded, “He didn’t abandon you! He died!” It was like a slap in the face. I could not admit to the words, ‘he died.’ They were too harsh! Too unkind! Too horrible! I still refuse to use those words. I don’t like them! I imagine all the people I love that have left this earth being in a wonderful place together, a place with no pain. They did not die! They now live on a different plane. Their souls are there; just the body has rotted. I can hear Peter saying, “Stella, enough of this nonsense! Dead is dead, is dead, is dead!” “No it isn’t,” I passionately reply. “The soul lives on!” We have this argument in my mind practically every week now, except that now he is silent. He does not answer me, but I am deeply convinced that this is so.
I am now sitting in the room off the bedroom. I have my electric radiator on. A blanket, which I had knitted many years ago, drapes my lower limbs and the radiator. Soon I feel toasty warm. I look outside the window. The sky beyond the dogwood tree is gray. The little red bird that dwelt in the tree all summer is no longer there. I suppose he flew to warmer climates. The leaves are changing hues. Soon the dogwood tree will shed all its leaves and become bare. Then, the squirrels will gleefully scamper up and down with their treasures of acorns, nuts, and berries. I smile to myself. In weather like this, Peter and I used to walk through the winding paths in the woods, admiring the brilliant autumnal colors for hours and hours. Sometimes I bent down to pick an attractive pine cone or two. I would hold them to my nose, shut my eyes, smile, and breathe deeply from their piney smell. Those were the days when I was healthy. Now I painfully totter like the old woman I have become. It takes me forever to do things. Sometimes I forget that I can no longer do what I used to do, but I am not as surprised at myself as I used to be. I thank heaven that although my body seems to be rotting, my mind is still there. With my imagination, I feel empowered. I can go wherever I want to, do whatever I want to do. With my words I can express things.
I miss my parents and my Peter; I miss the friends and family that went before me, but they are still so cherished in my memory. No, I am not abandoned. I feel their love. I can feel them. I feel blessed and oh so rich with their love.
And now, I am downstairs. First, I fed my outdoor cats. As I open the back door, I smell logs burning in someone’s fireplace. What a heady smell! Jade saunters towards me. “Meow. What took so long? I’m famished,” she exclaims as she begins to eat. I straighten up. I breathe deeply from cool autumn air. Ah! What a beautiful morning!
I am fortunate. I had a good and interesting life!