After bringing home a brand new smack out of the box baby (excuse the pun) I have realized that there is so much about being a parent that I totally forgot about. I have spent a lot of time this past week being really surprised.
Like, I've just relearned how nice it feels to be clean when you're a slimy grub. I forgot about how having a new born in the house means you can't just have a shower any time you feel like it. If I had remembered that, I probably wouldn't have taken my last hot bath for granted.
I've also learned that the term "tired" is really subjective. Tired before pregnancy, birth and new parenthood is really incomparable to tired now. Today, when I say I'm tired, what I mean is my legs are shaking and my back aches. It means that if just ONE thing goes wrong, I'll probably cry. It means that if I were to sleep for an hour, I would still wake up tired. Tired now means that I would trade in meals and soap for that hour. It means that it feels like there's sand in my eyes, and lead weights dragging my eyelids and feet down. I would just love to be the kind of tired I was 10 months ago. Oh yes, I certainly forgot about being tired.
I forgot about how small babies are. And it seems that in the eight hours I was away from home having a baby, I forgot how big my almost five year old was. She seems infinately taller, and heavier, and OLDER. After snuggling my newest, I crept into my oldests room while she was sleeping, to check on her. I was astounded at the amount of leg hanging out of the bed, and how big the foot was on the end of said leg. Then I saw her hands which seemed so big, compared to the tiny fingers that were so recently gripping my own pinky. After staring at the creasy red wrinkled face, with swollen eyes and fuzzy hair of my new born, I was struck by the lack of baby fat on my older daughters face. When did she stop looking like a little girl? When did she stop BEING a little girl? And how did I miss it?
I thought I forgot how good it feels to cuddle a new born baby girl...but I didn't. It feels about the same as it does to cuddle my five year old, surprisingly. It feels like you could sleep in total peace, with the knowledge that all is right with the world because what's most precious to you is safe in your arms. A snuggle with my newest has the same sweet innocent joy as a snuggle with the older...just one sits still for it indefinitely, where the other does it half the time just to amuse me.
I've learned that my body and mind are more capable than I ever imagined before. Natural childbirth is not for the faint of heart. There are memories that I will treasure to the day I die, and some that I seriously hope will fade with time. I've learned that my husband is stronger and more dependable than any man I've ever known. I will never forget the hours he spent kneeling on cold hard bathroom tiles in the hospital while I squeezed his hand like I meant to liquefy his bones. I will never forget how he fought for me when I couldn't make words. Through tears and screams, he stood by me, supported me and never left me. If the only memories I had of my birth experience were my first sight of Marlee, her first cry, and his constant presence, I would feel blessed like one who has seen and believed something holy.
I forgot how good it feels to take a really good pee. It seems that the inside of my bathroom has become overly familiar over the course of the pregnancy, and lumbering out of bed four times a night feeling like flood gates are going to open and wash the house away, only to make it to the bathroom and have a piss that MIGHT fill up a shot glass has been frustrating. I forgot how nice it feels not to have someone stepping on my bladder, and to be able to stand up and say with conviction "I have to pee". Pregnant people can never say that with conviction.
I have rediscovered my feet. And they really ARE feet. They don't look like flesh colored gumby extensions...or feet shaped balloons filled with jello, or playdough. I have visible bones in my feet. And they don't feel like they are on fire anymore. They don't hurt to walk on. I don't feel the need to stand on my basement floor for the relief the cold concrete gave, nor do I need to sit in a cool bath. I will never take my feet for granted again.
I have rediscovered food again. I can drink a glass of milk without feeling like I have fire in my throat, and I can eat pizza without wishing I could just die. Gaviscon is not my constant companion. Food does not disgust me. Eggs and meat do not repulse me anymore. Today I ate a sausage at supper time...and I didn't spend the whole meal trying to convince my stomach that what I'm eating is in fact potato chips, NOT MEAT. I had a glass of juice, and it hasn't come back to haunt me.
Pregnancy may be beautiful, and it may be a miracle. There may be much joy found in the knowledge that your little one is safe and secure, resting under your heart. But it feels damn good when it's over.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I just don't understand.
Given that I can no longer go for a walk, garden, take a bath without feeling like I am just sitting in a puddle, or get off the couch without having a huge hissy fit because the back of my lay-z-boy chair got stuck on the chair rail and I couldn't get out....I have had a lot of time to ponder. I have questions, and I wonder...
So the first major blank I came to is this: Who the *^#O cares about John Gosslin? Why does having six babies make you that important?. Ok wait, having one baby is a miracle, having six is a death sentence but a pretty amazing one. But he didn't even HAVE them. He provided swimmers. Who cares who he dates? Why are women swarming him? He's a thirtysomething dude, who still wears band shirts, left his wife and 8 children and immediately sailed off with someone new...and if the tabloids are correct...she's the daughter of the dude that gave his wife a tummy tuck. Who t f cares about him or his girlfriends (who seem to be two psychopaths fighting over a middleaged weirdo)...
It's not like I'm resurecting the whole "team jennifer/angelina" bullshit. I don't have a pink tshirt with "team kate" on it, and I am not hiding behind bushes waiting to jump the first man wearing a "team john" shirt, yell sexist pig and then hit him with something. I genuinely don't care about either one of them. She yelled incessantly, he whined constantly...they picked on eachother daily...at least half of their children were crying at any given moment. I just wonder...why do they matter so much.
My second wonder- cell phones. What is the deal with cell phones. I phones. Blackberry's. God knows what else. Mark and I both agree that having cell phones is probably a good idea. So we decide to get them. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is to just get a phone? So off I go shopping. They ask me-do I want this one, it has a full querty keyboard (what is querty? and if it doesn't have a querty keyboard, what does it have?) and I say no, I don't want to send emails from my phone...or whatever. Do I want a walkie talkie? ok, that was like 1980...or something. I don't want old shit on my phone. I don't want morse code either...if that's an option. Do I want an mp3 player? no...I don't want a radio...or a tv...or anything else. I want a phone. Just a phone. With numbers...and a speaker so that I can hear a voice talking to me, and a mic that I can talk into. I would like my phone to ring...just ring. Not play the theme song to fraggle rock, or whinney the pooh...or anything else. Just ring. you know? ring ring...a PHONE. DO I want to text? no. Do they have just a phone? no. apparently there is no such thing as JUST a phone. sigh. what happened to us?
I feel like some really old geezer wheezing at the kids "when I was your age...we walked to school! Bare feet! In the snow! Uphill! Both ways! AND WE DIDN'T have a go-go-gadget phone!
But seriously. What DID happen? When did we stop using a phone to call eachother? When did we start needing a machine to do EVERYTHING for us? We can't read maps, we need GPS. We can't make a call...we need to text message. We can't hand our kids a quarter and tell them to call us when they need to be picked up...NOOOOOOOO, we need to hand them a phone, that isn't a phone...and then wonder why they're sending pictures of themselves naked to who knows who, who knows where....
our phones must be able to browse, receive email, and make a sandwitch. We must all turn into zombies and walk around public places with our heads down and our thumbs poised over our phones bashing into eachother. We must be connected. All the TIME. To everyone, everywhere. We must make it easy for everyone to reach us, and then we must pass that on to our teenaged sons and daughters, and make it easy for them to be reached...all the time. Three 16 year old girls do NOT need to walk down the street beside eachother, texting. Seriously people, we are going to evolve without voice boxes and very very strong thumbs.
I will admit, cell phones to give a measure of safety. I am all for providing my daughter with a phone, so that she can call 911 and say "some weird dude is following me, can I get some help?" She doesn't need all you can text/email/browse/or eat. Neither do I...chances are...neither do YOU. Our kids will probably need social skills though. I know some of you guys could use some too...
What are they going to do...grow up and get jobs and forget how to talk. How to communicate effectively. How to say anything without popping an lol or a rofl...or anything else at the end? WIll they grow up to be doctors and lawyers...and waitresses, and garbagemen...and be silent. And when pedophiles, and dealers...and really bad dudes reach out and touch our daughters and sons because technology makes it easy, then what? I just don't understand.
People call me old...at 27...or 28 or however old I am. I'm not old. I just don't say baaaaaaa. Sometime around the age of 19 or 20 I stopped trying to be cool...and get cool stuff. I don't want something because you have it. I don't want it because it's new. I don't want it because everyone else has it. I don't care if it's top of the line, or how much it costs, or all the shit it can do that I don't need.
that's that for now...I actually have a lot more to say...but my kid is hungry.
So the first major blank I came to is this: Who the *^#O cares about John Gosslin? Why does having six babies make you that important?. Ok wait, having one baby is a miracle, having six is a death sentence but a pretty amazing one. But he didn't even HAVE them. He provided swimmers. Who cares who he dates? Why are women swarming him? He's a thirtysomething dude, who still wears band shirts, left his wife and 8 children and immediately sailed off with someone new...and if the tabloids are correct...she's the daughter of the dude that gave his wife a tummy tuck. Who t f cares about him or his girlfriends (who seem to be two psychopaths fighting over a middleaged weirdo)...
It's not like I'm resurecting the whole "team jennifer/angelina" bullshit. I don't have a pink tshirt with "team kate" on it, and I am not hiding behind bushes waiting to jump the first man wearing a "team john" shirt, yell sexist pig and then hit him with something. I genuinely don't care about either one of them. She yelled incessantly, he whined constantly...they picked on eachother daily...at least half of their children were crying at any given moment. I just wonder...why do they matter so much.
My second wonder- cell phones. What is the deal with cell phones. I phones. Blackberry's. God knows what else. Mark and I both agree that having cell phones is probably a good idea. So we decide to get them. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is to just get a phone? So off I go shopping. They ask me-do I want this one, it has a full querty keyboard (what is querty? and if it doesn't have a querty keyboard, what does it have?) and I say no, I don't want to send emails from my phone...or whatever. Do I want a walkie talkie? ok, that was like 1980...or something. I don't want old shit on my phone. I don't want morse code either...if that's an option. Do I want an mp3 player? no...I don't want a radio...or a tv...or anything else. I want a phone. Just a phone. With numbers...and a speaker so that I can hear a voice talking to me, and a mic that I can talk into. I would like my phone to ring...just ring. Not play the theme song to fraggle rock, or whinney the pooh...or anything else. Just ring. you know? ring ring...a PHONE. DO I want to text? no. Do they have just a phone? no. apparently there is no such thing as JUST a phone. sigh. what happened to us?
I feel like some really old geezer wheezing at the kids "when I was your age...we walked to school! Bare feet! In the snow! Uphill! Both ways! AND WE DIDN'T have a go-go-gadget phone!
But seriously. What DID happen? When did we stop using a phone to call eachother? When did we start needing a machine to do EVERYTHING for us? We can't read maps, we need GPS. We can't make a call...we need to text message. We can't hand our kids a quarter and tell them to call us when they need to be picked up...NOOOOOOOO, we need to hand them a phone, that isn't a phone...and then wonder why they're sending pictures of themselves naked to who knows who, who knows where....
our phones must be able to browse, receive email, and make a sandwitch. We must all turn into zombies and walk around public places with our heads down and our thumbs poised over our phones bashing into eachother. We must be connected. All the TIME. To everyone, everywhere. We must make it easy for everyone to reach us, and then we must pass that on to our teenaged sons and daughters, and make it easy for them to be reached...all the time. Three 16 year old girls do NOT need to walk down the street beside eachother, texting. Seriously people, we are going to evolve without voice boxes and very very strong thumbs.
I will admit, cell phones to give a measure of safety. I am all for providing my daughter with a phone, so that she can call 911 and say "some weird dude is following me, can I get some help?" She doesn't need all you can text/email/browse/or eat. Neither do I...chances are...neither do YOU. Our kids will probably need social skills though. I know some of you guys could use some too...
What are they going to do...grow up and get jobs and forget how to talk. How to communicate effectively. How to say anything without popping an lol or a rofl...or anything else at the end? WIll they grow up to be doctors and lawyers...and waitresses, and garbagemen...and be silent. And when pedophiles, and dealers...and really bad dudes reach out and touch our daughters and sons because technology makes it easy, then what? I just don't understand.
People call me old...at 27...or 28 or however old I am. I'm not old. I just don't say baaaaaaa. Sometime around the age of 19 or 20 I stopped trying to be cool...and get cool stuff. I don't want something because you have it. I don't want it because it's new. I don't want it because everyone else has it. I don't care if it's top of the line, or how much it costs, or all the shit it can do that I don't need.
that's that for now...I actually have a lot more to say...but my kid is hungry.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Some of Faiths funniest quotes
Trying Desperately hard to get her grandmothers attention, bouncing up and down like a demendted child holding a naked barbie bent at a 90 degree angle
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: So I went to Walmart today to get some really-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: sheets. They were on a really great sale and the pockets actually fit my-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: nevermind
Faith:underwear! underwear! (We try to ignore interuptions, in an effort to teach manners and timing...obviously not successful in this area)
Mom sounding resigned: She's not wearing any underwear...
Faith: Yes she is! See how they're bumpy? That's her underwear...
Mom: No, that's how bums are!
Faith: Gramma! Feel that! Does that feel like butt?
Mom: Feel your bum...they're all bumpy..
Faith sounding paranoid: MOM! is my bum bumpy?
--age 5
Faith to Mark: You would be as handsome as prince charming if you shaved off your mustache...but you're pretty hairy. You could be the beast...
Age 5
Mom, did you know stars are born out of a BLEBULOUS? (nebulous)
Age 4, after watching discovery kids.
While pretending there is a volcano in the bathroom "look out mom! it eruffted!"
age 4, another discover kids show
While upstairs in her room I hear all of her soothers hit the floor (they were kept in a box on a shelf in her closet during the day) and I call up the stairs "what was that noise?" I hear a muffled Faith say "um...I had an accident" and I say "what kind of accident?" (I have a pretty good idea already but I'll play this out) faith says "um...a sucky accident." and I say "is there one in your mouth" and she says "ya, that was the accident"
aged 2
Mark and Faith are in the car, driving to school in winter. Faith is pretending she is batgirl. The car spins out and bumps into a snowbank. Faith says "uh, Marky...maybe batman should drive"
aged 3
When asked what she would like to name the baby in my tummy, Faith responded: " if it's a boy- April...if it's a girl- Diamond. Aged 4
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: So I went to Walmart today to get some really-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: sheets. They were on a really great sale and the pockets actually fit my-
Faith: Underwear! Underwear!
Me to mother: nevermind
Faith:underwear! underwear! (We try to ignore interuptions, in an effort to teach manners and timing...obviously not successful in this area)
Mom sounding resigned: She's not wearing any underwear...
Faith: Yes she is! See how they're bumpy? That's her underwear...
Mom: No, that's how bums are!
Faith: Gramma! Feel that! Does that feel like butt?
Mom: Feel your bum...they're all bumpy..
Faith sounding paranoid: MOM! is my bum bumpy?
--age 5
Faith to Mark: You would be as handsome as prince charming if you shaved off your mustache...but you're pretty hairy. You could be the beast...
Age 5
Mom, did you know stars are born out of a BLEBULOUS? (nebulous)
Age 4, after watching discovery kids.
While pretending there is a volcano in the bathroom "look out mom! it eruffted!"
age 4, another discover kids show
While upstairs in her room I hear all of her soothers hit the floor (they were kept in a box on a shelf in her closet during the day) and I call up the stairs "what was that noise?" I hear a muffled Faith say "um...I had an accident" and I say "what kind of accident?" (I have a pretty good idea already but I'll play this out) faith says "um...a sucky accident." and I say "is there one in your mouth" and she says "ya, that was the accident"
aged 2
Mark and Faith are in the car, driving to school in winter. Faith is pretending she is batgirl. The car spins out and bumps into a snowbank. Faith says "uh, Marky...maybe batman should drive"
aged 3
When asked what she would like to name the baby in my tummy, Faith responded: " if it's a boy- April...if it's a girl- Diamond. Aged 4
Monday, August 10, 2009
I've come to the conclusion
I have come to a strange and startling conclusion. Or maybe even an epiphany...but probably not quite that good. Anyways...lately it seems as though my brain is split into two brains. OK, I seriously MENTIONED that this was not as good as an epiphany...anyways. Like I was saying, where once there was only one brain, now it SEEMS as though there are two.
Brain number one is completely logical but with no emotion, I can only assume that brain number two is everything BUT logic. So this is how that works....
I'm going about my regular day today and having this weird conversation in my head. It went sort of like this.
Brain #2: I'm thirty eight weeks pregnant! (That would be in happy tones of thought)
Brain #1: WTF? When did THAT happen (shocked/calculating tone of thought...kind of like doing period math when you're late...only WAY more frantic)
Brain #2: Remembers how excited I was about having Faith and bringing her home
Brain #1: Ya, that was before you REALLY knew what it was like to be a mother. FOREVER.
Brain #2: Total blank (literally, ZERO function at this point) and then a small voice (It can't be brain #3 can it?) saying "oh shit, that's a bad sign".
And things sort of went downhill from there.
Honestly, it's not that I'm NOT happy to be having my second child. It just seemed like such a great idea...but a large portion of my brain seems to have shut off between the day I decided baby number two would be a good idea, and today...where baby number two is going to be along any time. That part of my brain seems to have woken up with a vengeance...bleary, cranky and seriously pissed at the loss of time...like a drunk just come out of the worlds worst bender that's lost track of months...and months. That part of my brain (it's quite pessimistic) keeps asking me questions like "you realize that now you are going to have TWO small people in the house? They'll be there, making NOISE forever..." and "you know it'll be another FIVE years before you are able to consistently say you slept well last night"? and "you have just spent approximately ONE year with the ability to go out WITHOUT worrying about your kid, and you're signing up for another FOUR years?
Suddenly I've just remembered all of this things that made life really really really sucky. Yes kids are wonderful, they make you laugh every day...etc etc. I am thrilled, can't wait to meet her. (I did tell you specifically that there were TWO brains right?) Well suffice it to say that Brain #2 is completely appaled at Brain #1. And I'm not QUITE sure, but I think brain #1 might be ashamed of itself too...but that's hard to say.
All the same...part of me eagerly anticipates the arrival of our newest daughter...and the fact that I will not be pregnant any more. The other part of me is screaming "labour? what do you mean labour?!? This can't be happening again!"
Is any of this normal?
Brain number one is completely logical but with no emotion, I can only assume that brain number two is everything BUT logic. So this is how that works....
I'm going about my regular day today and having this weird conversation in my head. It went sort of like this.
Brain #2: I'm thirty eight weeks pregnant! (That would be in happy tones of thought)
Brain #1: WTF? When did THAT happen (shocked/calculating tone of thought...kind of like doing period math when you're late...only WAY more frantic)
Brain #2: Remembers how excited I was about having Faith and bringing her home
Brain #1: Ya, that was before you REALLY knew what it was like to be a mother. FOREVER.
Brain #2: Total blank (literally, ZERO function at this point) and then a small voice (It can't be brain #3 can it?) saying "oh shit, that's a bad sign".
And things sort of went downhill from there.
Honestly, it's not that I'm NOT happy to be having my second child. It just seemed like such a great idea...but a large portion of my brain seems to have shut off between the day I decided baby number two would be a good idea, and today...where baby number two is going to be along any time. That part of my brain seems to have woken up with a vengeance...bleary, cranky and seriously pissed at the loss of time...like a drunk just come out of the worlds worst bender that's lost track of months...and months. That part of my brain (it's quite pessimistic) keeps asking me questions like "you realize that now you are going to have TWO small people in the house? They'll be there, making NOISE forever..." and "you know it'll be another FIVE years before you are able to consistently say you slept well last night"? and "you have just spent approximately ONE year with the ability to go out WITHOUT worrying about your kid, and you're signing up for another FOUR years?
Suddenly I've just remembered all of this things that made life really really really sucky. Yes kids are wonderful, they make you laugh every day...etc etc. I am thrilled, can't wait to meet her. (I did tell you specifically that there were TWO brains right?) Well suffice it to say that Brain #2 is completely appaled at Brain #1. And I'm not QUITE sure, but I think brain #1 might be ashamed of itself too...but that's hard to say.
All the same...part of me eagerly anticipates the arrival of our newest daughter...and the fact that I will not be pregnant any more. The other part of me is screaming "labour? what do you mean labour?!? This can't be happening again!"
Is any of this normal?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Some shit that made me giggle when I read it
This is a compilation of some really funny shit overheard by random people in New York City. Makes me think a visit would be SO fun.
a middle-aged, not badly-dressed man in jeans and a polo emerges from an alleyway wearing a sunhat with large fake flowers sprouting from it and says to my mom and me walking by, "So, I'm thinking of becoming a lesbian."
13-year-old girl on phone: That's right, I lost my virginity...looks like someone owes me a soda.
Guy #1: ...and he just kept chewing and chewing. Man, I felt so bad.
Guy #2: Dude, why did you give a Twizzler to a giraffe?
Teen girl #1: Wait, so you just let him do you in the butt? You let him sodomize you?
Teen girl #2: It wasn't bad. I couldn't shit for a few days, though. So I took some laxatives, then I shit myself in the mall yesterday.
NJ mom on cell with son #1: Anthony! Anthony, It's Mamma. Stop crying right now. It's okay, honey. It's going to stop hurting in two minutes. Jesus, with the sobbing already! Put your brother on.NJ mom on cell with son #2: I want you to stop doing that thing to your brother. If you make him cry again I'm going to make you cry. Do you hear me? Don't play stupid with me. I get enough of that from it your father. What? Put him on... Stop laughing... Put Daddy on the phone or so help me Jesus...NJ mom on phone with the father : Jerkoff, what the fuck is going on over there? I leave the house for five goddamm minutes and you are all flicking each other's balls again... Stop fucking laughing. You are going to make them retarded or gay or something!
Mother with little girl: Excuse me. My daughter wants to know if you're a pirate.
Woman wearing bandana: No. I'm just a lesbian.
Little girl, pointing to grab holds: Look, Dad, monkey bars!
Little boy: I wanna play on the pole! No, you can't too, this is my pole!
Dad: Bobby, everyone can play on the pole!
Little girl: Bobby, go back to your pole!
Little boy: Fine! Look, Dad, I'm a pole dancer!
Chick, screaming into cell: What a bitch! I swear, it's getting harder and harder to fuck your co-worker and get away without people finding out!
Male student #1: Your sister has the best tasting punani in New York.
Male student #2: I'll pay for lunch if you promise not to say that again.
http://www.overheardinnewyork.com
a middle-aged, not badly-dressed man in jeans and a polo emerges from an alleyway wearing a sunhat with large fake flowers sprouting from it and says to my mom and me walking by, "So, I'm thinking of becoming a lesbian."
13-year-old girl on phone: That's right, I lost my virginity...looks like someone owes me a soda.
Guy #1: ...and he just kept chewing and chewing. Man, I felt so bad.
Guy #2: Dude, why did you give a Twizzler to a giraffe?
Teen girl #1: Wait, so you just let him do you in the butt? You let him sodomize you?
Teen girl #2: It wasn't bad. I couldn't shit for a few days, though. So I took some laxatives, then I shit myself in the mall yesterday.
NJ mom on cell with son #1: Anthony! Anthony, It's Mamma. Stop crying right now. It's okay, honey. It's going to stop hurting in two minutes. Jesus, with the sobbing already! Put your brother on.NJ mom on cell with son #2: I want you to stop doing that thing to your brother. If you make him cry again I'm going to make you cry. Do you hear me? Don't play stupid with me. I get enough of that from it your father. What? Put him on... Stop laughing... Put Daddy on the phone or so help me Jesus...NJ mom on phone with the father : Jerkoff, what the fuck is going on over there? I leave the house for five goddamm minutes and you are all flicking each other's balls again... Stop fucking laughing. You are going to make them retarded or gay or something!
Mother with little girl: Excuse me. My daughter wants to know if you're a pirate.
Woman wearing bandana: No. I'm just a lesbian.
Little girl, pointing to grab holds: Look, Dad, monkey bars!
Little boy: I wanna play on the pole! No, you can't too, this is my pole!
Dad: Bobby, everyone can play on the pole!
Little girl: Bobby, go back to your pole!
Little boy: Fine! Look, Dad, I'm a pole dancer!
Chick, screaming into cell: What a bitch! I swear, it's getting harder and harder to fuck your co-worker and get away without people finding out!
Male student #1: Your sister has the best tasting punani in New York.
Male student #2: I'll pay for lunch if you promise not to say that again.
http://www.overheardinnewyork.com
Just a few things I wanted to clear up...
This is just a little list of things that seriously peeve me.
1. Thank you for telling me you can't tell I'm pregnant from the back. I think it's probably because there isn't a baby in my ass...but I'm sure you meant it as a compliment.
2. For the record, I only come to your house on holidays and eat your precocious food while you look pittyingly at me because my daughter eats WHITE bread and PEANUT BUTTER, instead of whole grain wraps and organic Almond butter because your shitty food comes in the BEST tupperware.
3. Maybe it's just me, but I don't see a big flashing light in the middle of EVERY god damn aisle at walmart that says "congregate here, discuss everything under the sun".
4. The fact that I am having a baby does not give you the right to touch me. Fuck off.
5. When my husband tells you we're expecting and you say "a baby?" with an obvious question mark at the end, I just want to smack you. No, I fucking stole a watermelon and we're expecting a puppy any day now.
6. If you are a complete stranger, I probably don't care what labor/delivery/pain managment was like for you. See the blank look on my face...that's how you know I don't care.
7. I also don't care about the retarded names your sisters named their many children...just so you know, strange lady in the bakery.
8. The person that lives accross from me is completely capable of mowing his own lawn, yet a senior does it for him. He also has had a shopping cart parked in his lawn all summer, and never uses it. WTF?
9. You know who really annoys me? People who don't even know you but throw you a dose of stink eye...just for existing.
10. Texting. Seriously. It's a PHONE. With a speaker. So you can HEAR what the person you are TALKING to is saying. You know what you're supposed to use to send typed messages? A computer. Why, why why is everyone texting, on a god damn telephone. Yesterday I was at the mall, and I noticed that 9 people out of ten were just wandering around with their eyes trained down, thumbs hovering anxiously over their phone typing out a message that no doubt would take four seconds to dial a number and say "ya I'll be there in a sec..."
11. This particular phone conversation really really really pissed me off:
Answering machine: this is bell canada calling to inform you about.....(there was an issue with my phone bill apparently. Due to financial difficulties I had been unable to pay for a couple bills the month before but was 99% possitive I was all caught up UNTIL this phone message)...please call 1-800 something or other as soon as possible.
Lee: fuck. So I call the number...and due to a high call volume am put on hold, but because of repeated messages, am assured that my call is important. Whatever
Bell: Some nearly unintelligible person tries to help me, I explain my message. they say "your bill is in arrears by (one months bill only) and would you like to pay for that right now by credit card?
Lee: you called me and kept me on hold for 20 minutes to tell me my bill was due YESTERDAY and you want me to pay be credit?
Bell: I'm sorry mam, but you called us.
Lee: that's because you called me and told me to!
Bell: We encourage you to ignore messages like that in the future.
Lee: expletive expletive expletive and so on and so forth.
Are you fucking kidding me? That was the most rediculous phone call I've ever had in my entire life. Does ANYONE at bell talk to anyone else? I think it's just a bunch of people who barely speak english sitting around a huge table picking phone numbers out of a hat saying "how can we really fuck with HER today?"
12. While we're on the subject, telemarketers really annoy me. Do NOT call me early in the morning. Do NOT call me at meal time. Do NOT call me the day before, the day of, or the day after a holiday. I seriously doubt that I have won a holiday anywhere...so if that's what you're calling to offer, don't bother. To be completely honest with you, I'm smart enough to get in my car and drive to any store...so if you have something to sell, I think I can probably buy it by myself thanks. If you're a TELEPHONE company calling me on my TELEPHONE, then it looks like I've already got service...And for donation companies...I understand there is a need for financial contributions from the community...but when I HAVE donated to you, you called me every week for years, kind of takes the joy out of giving. If your english is unintelegable, I probably don't know what you're offering so my answer is always going to be NO. And you know who I lump in with telemarketers? Direct energy. Ok, maybe to you I look stupid...but I am not going to sign a five year contract promising to pay a flat rate on my gas when it's high so that you can totally fuck me over when it's low. And now there's a new one out, Green Energy or something. I am also not going to agree to spend a rediculously high amount on my hydro bill because "smart meters" are coming out. And your "if we keep using energy at this rate, your beautiful daughter will be using a gas mask" doesn't impress me. Your fear tactics blow...and they make me more likely to throw my really mean cat at you than to listen to you any further.
13. When people park in the disabled parking spots because the don't want to walk in the heat/cold/rain and I watch my mother limp in. If you are the person that does this and a silver cavalier has completely blocked you in, that's me, you lazy bitch.
ok, maybe I'll add more later. ciao all
1. Thank you for telling me you can't tell I'm pregnant from the back. I think it's probably because there isn't a baby in my ass...but I'm sure you meant it as a compliment.
2. For the record, I only come to your house on holidays and eat your precocious food while you look pittyingly at me because my daughter eats WHITE bread and PEANUT BUTTER, instead of whole grain wraps and organic Almond butter because your shitty food comes in the BEST tupperware.
3. Maybe it's just me, but I don't see a big flashing light in the middle of EVERY god damn aisle at walmart that says "congregate here, discuss everything under the sun".
4. The fact that I am having a baby does not give you the right to touch me. Fuck off.
5. When my husband tells you we're expecting and you say "a baby?" with an obvious question mark at the end, I just want to smack you. No, I fucking stole a watermelon and we're expecting a puppy any day now.
6. If you are a complete stranger, I probably don't care what labor/delivery/pain managment was like for you. See the blank look on my face...that's how you know I don't care.
7. I also don't care about the retarded names your sisters named their many children...just so you know, strange lady in the bakery.
8. The person that lives accross from me is completely capable of mowing his own lawn, yet a senior does it for him. He also has had a shopping cart parked in his lawn all summer, and never uses it. WTF?
9. You know who really annoys me? People who don't even know you but throw you a dose of stink eye...just for existing.
10. Texting. Seriously. It's a PHONE. With a speaker. So you can HEAR what the person you are TALKING to is saying. You know what you're supposed to use to send typed messages? A computer. Why, why why is everyone texting, on a god damn telephone. Yesterday I was at the mall, and I noticed that 9 people out of ten were just wandering around with their eyes trained down, thumbs hovering anxiously over their phone typing out a message that no doubt would take four seconds to dial a number and say "ya I'll be there in a sec..."
11. This particular phone conversation really really really pissed me off:
Answering machine: this is bell canada calling to inform you about.....(there was an issue with my phone bill apparently. Due to financial difficulties I had been unable to pay for a couple bills the month before but was 99% possitive I was all caught up UNTIL this phone message)...please call 1-800 something or other as soon as possible.
Lee: fuck. So I call the number...and due to a high call volume am put on hold, but because of repeated messages, am assured that my call is important. Whatever
Bell: Some nearly unintelligible person tries to help me, I explain my message. they say "your bill is in arrears by (one months bill only) and would you like to pay for that right now by credit card?
Lee: you called me and kept me on hold for 20 minutes to tell me my bill was due YESTERDAY and you want me to pay be credit?
Bell: I'm sorry mam, but you called us.
Lee: that's because you called me and told me to!
Bell: We encourage you to ignore messages like that in the future.
Lee: expletive expletive expletive and so on and so forth.
Are you fucking kidding me? That was the most rediculous phone call I've ever had in my entire life. Does ANYONE at bell talk to anyone else? I think it's just a bunch of people who barely speak english sitting around a huge table picking phone numbers out of a hat saying "how can we really fuck with HER today?"
12. While we're on the subject, telemarketers really annoy me. Do NOT call me early in the morning. Do NOT call me at meal time. Do NOT call me the day before, the day of, or the day after a holiday. I seriously doubt that I have won a holiday anywhere...so if that's what you're calling to offer, don't bother. To be completely honest with you, I'm smart enough to get in my car and drive to any store...so if you have something to sell, I think I can probably buy it by myself thanks. If you're a TELEPHONE company calling me on my TELEPHONE, then it looks like I've already got service...And for donation companies...I understand there is a need for financial contributions from the community...but when I HAVE donated to you, you called me every week for years, kind of takes the joy out of giving. If your english is unintelegable, I probably don't know what you're offering so my answer is always going to be NO. And you know who I lump in with telemarketers? Direct energy. Ok, maybe to you I look stupid...but I am not going to sign a five year contract promising to pay a flat rate on my gas when it's high so that you can totally fuck me over when it's low. And now there's a new one out, Green Energy or something. I am also not going to agree to spend a rediculously high amount on my hydro bill because "smart meters" are coming out. And your "if we keep using energy at this rate, your beautiful daughter will be using a gas mask" doesn't impress me. Your fear tactics blow...and they make me more likely to throw my really mean cat at you than to listen to you any further.
13. When people park in the disabled parking spots because the don't want to walk in the heat/cold/rain and I watch my mother limp in. If you are the person that does this and a silver cavalier has completely blocked you in, that's me, you lazy bitch.
ok, maybe I'll add more later. ciao all
chapter 4
Ta-thump
August 12, 1991
Amos is dressed in his best suit for what he hopes is the last time, he is 71 years old. Looking in the mirror he wishes his best suit were maybe just a little better, polyester pants, uncomfortably warm on a summer day, and printed shirts not being in the same favor they were when Ellen had picked the suit out for him. Amos lives on a pension though and a new suit just wasn’t in the budget, and besides his wife had picked this suit out specifically. He didn’t feel right replacing it. So Amos sat in his chair waiting patiently for his daughter, hoping he didn’t embarrass his grandson too greatly.
When Ella arrives, she steps out of her car and Amos is astonished at how beautiful she is and also at how much his chest hurts seeing her there. It could have been Ellen. Her hair is swept back off her face in a tight bun which would look severe on a person with even slightly forbidding features. Ella always looks kindly and gentle, even when she’s angry. She’s wearing a beautiful peach colored dress, with her mothers pearls at her neck and a pair of matching earrings that Amos had made for her to match the necklace. She wears a peach satin wrap around her shoulders, draped through the elbows and clutches a ridiculously small peach satin handbag in her hand. Through some magic of female aesthetics, her skin shimmers in the sun setting off her tan and giving her a youthful appearance, which was no doubt her intention. Her make up is obviously professionally applied, Amos knows she’s wearing it but he can’t see it. He notices her nails, long shiny and perfectly cut in a shade that matches her dress perfectly. He has a private quiet chuckle as he watches her navigate the stairs and front porch. His daughter has never worn high heels well and she walks with extreme caution and care while trying to give the appearance that she is doing nothing of the kind, as though she is drunk and trying very hard not to let anyone know.
Ella walks into the house wearing her mothers favorite perfume, Chanel 5, and pins a peach colored boutonniere to his lapel, kissing him on the cheek as she adjusts his tie and collar. She makes him take off his shoes so she can apply a fresh coat of polish, and puts his cufflinks on for him. She exchanges his regular watch for the one he wears when he dresses up and fondly combs his thin hair. She drags him off to the bathroom and drapes a large dish towel around his neck, pulling sandalwood shaving cream out of the cabinet. She applies aftershave to his face and neck, making his skin sting and his eyes water and then sprays cologne on the front of his shirt. She looks him over critically, as only a mother can and Amos heaves a sigh of relief when he passes muster. He doesn’t see the point in all this fuss, no one will be looking at him. Until he looks at Ella and realizes how important this day is for her, her son is getting married and directly after the honeymoon he will be moving to China with his new wife to pursue his career until he can be transferred back to Canada. Amos understands wanting to remember things perfectly and not wanting any regrets. He knows Ella is more than happy for her son, and that her heart is breaking because she doesn’t know how long he will be gone away. He understands her fear, and her need to make sure that everything goes smoothly. He understands that very well.
Later they sit side by side in the pew at the church, his daughter on his left and an empty space on his right. Out of respect, his grandson had left an empty space out of remembrance for his grandmother, which Amos was very grateful for considering Jeremy never met his grandmother. Amos reflects on the passage of time, the image of an hourglass tumbling through his mind. One year by itself, like a grain of sand is so small and inconsequential, passing with the promise of other grains of sand to come until suddenly you look behind you and realize there are far more grains of sand behind you than in front.
Banishing that morbid line of thought, Amos focuses on his nervous looking grandson. Amos remembers standing in the same place, what seems like a lifetime ago. He recognizes the look of stark terror in his grandsons eyes and wishes he could tell him not to worry, she’ll be here. They almost always are, god help them although Amos isn’t always sure he knows why.
Amos watches as his grandsons fiancé, Maeling, walk down the isle looking foreign and proud. She wore the fanciest dress Amos had ever seen, very different from what his wife wore. Where his wife wore a high necked dress made of lace and white satin, this woman wore a clinging dress that fit snugly around her tiny waist, her train dragging behind her by several feet. The whole thing was inlaid with seed pearls, plain in it’s own way and yet very elaborate, Ellens had been decorated with excessive amounts of embroidery and what Amos thought may have been doilies. Where Ellen had worn a veil that covered her dark hair, the front layer pulled over her face, this tiny woman wore her dark thick hair piled on top of her head in curls without a veil. In her arms she carried a large bouquet of white lilies and white roses, which she had come late last evening to clip from Amos garden. He thought Ellen would be pleased to know that a part of her effort and devotion had touched this special occasion, even so many years after her death. On his own wedding day, he had not been able to afford much more than silk flowers and ribbon to bind them with for Ellen, and yet she had looked just as radiant and proud as Maeling did at this very moment. Her dress combined with exotic features set her apart from every woman there. Jeremy met her in China, where they will return after their honeymoon for a few years until he can be transferred back to Canada where they can start a family. Amos doesn’t recognize all of the words in the ceremony, and their wedding is a blend of both customs and yet Amos finds it all familiar. A sad smile plays across his face as he thinks, watching thoughts and emotions playing across both Jeremy and Maelings face. Remembering the way his wife had looked at him standing in the very same position so many years ago and how he felt standing beside her, he supposes that language barriers and strange customs aside, love is the same in any language.
Later, at the wedding reception after dinner he slips his arm around his daughter, knowing she will understand that he is ready to go home. She smiles at him, looking as tired as he feels. He realizes again with a flash that his daughter is not a child anymore, she is not even a young woman. There must be days where she feels her own age. All the same, she smiles at him and tugs him out to the dance floor, the tune of “Brown Eyed Girl” blaring from the DJ’s speakers. This song has always been a favorite of hers, and she has only ever danced it with her father. Not really knowing why, Amos treasures those few minutes out on the dance floor, holding the woman he loves most.
August 12, 1991
Amos is dressed in his best suit for what he hopes is the last time, he is 71 years old. Looking in the mirror he wishes his best suit were maybe just a little better, polyester pants, uncomfortably warm on a summer day, and printed shirts not being in the same favor they were when Ellen had picked the suit out for him. Amos lives on a pension though and a new suit just wasn’t in the budget, and besides his wife had picked this suit out specifically. He didn’t feel right replacing it. So Amos sat in his chair waiting patiently for his daughter, hoping he didn’t embarrass his grandson too greatly.
When Ella arrives, she steps out of her car and Amos is astonished at how beautiful she is and also at how much his chest hurts seeing her there. It could have been Ellen. Her hair is swept back off her face in a tight bun which would look severe on a person with even slightly forbidding features. Ella always looks kindly and gentle, even when she’s angry. She’s wearing a beautiful peach colored dress, with her mothers pearls at her neck and a pair of matching earrings that Amos had made for her to match the necklace. She wears a peach satin wrap around her shoulders, draped through the elbows and clutches a ridiculously small peach satin handbag in her hand. Through some magic of female aesthetics, her skin shimmers in the sun setting off her tan and giving her a youthful appearance, which was no doubt her intention. Her make up is obviously professionally applied, Amos knows she’s wearing it but he can’t see it. He notices her nails, long shiny and perfectly cut in a shade that matches her dress perfectly. He has a private quiet chuckle as he watches her navigate the stairs and front porch. His daughter has never worn high heels well and she walks with extreme caution and care while trying to give the appearance that she is doing nothing of the kind, as though she is drunk and trying very hard not to let anyone know.
Ella walks into the house wearing her mothers favorite perfume, Chanel 5, and pins a peach colored boutonniere to his lapel, kissing him on the cheek as she adjusts his tie and collar. She makes him take off his shoes so she can apply a fresh coat of polish, and puts his cufflinks on for him. She exchanges his regular watch for the one he wears when he dresses up and fondly combs his thin hair. She drags him off to the bathroom and drapes a large dish towel around his neck, pulling sandalwood shaving cream out of the cabinet. She applies aftershave to his face and neck, making his skin sting and his eyes water and then sprays cologne on the front of his shirt. She looks him over critically, as only a mother can and Amos heaves a sigh of relief when he passes muster. He doesn’t see the point in all this fuss, no one will be looking at him. Until he looks at Ella and realizes how important this day is for her, her son is getting married and directly after the honeymoon he will be moving to China with his new wife to pursue his career until he can be transferred back to Canada. Amos understands wanting to remember things perfectly and not wanting any regrets. He knows Ella is more than happy for her son, and that her heart is breaking because she doesn’t know how long he will be gone away. He understands her fear, and her need to make sure that everything goes smoothly. He understands that very well.
Later they sit side by side in the pew at the church, his daughter on his left and an empty space on his right. Out of respect, his grandson had left an empty space out of remembrance for his grandmother, which Amos was very grateful for considering Jeremy never met his grandmother. Amos reflects on the passage of time, the image of an hourglass tumbling through his mind. One year by itself, like a grain of sand is so small and inconsequential, passing with the promise of other grains of sand to come until suddenly you look behind you and realize there are far more grains of sand behind you than in front.
Banishing that morbid line of thought, Amos focuses on his nervous looking grandson. Amos remembers standing in the same place, what seems like a lifetime ago. He recognizes the look of stark terror in his grandsons eyes and wishes he could tell him not to worry, she’ll be here. They almost always are, god help them although Amos isn’t always sure he knows why.
Amos watches as his grandsons fiancé, Maeling, walk down the isle looking foreign and proud. She wore the fanciest dress Amos had ever seen, very different from what his wife wore. Where his wife wore a high necked dress made of lace and white satin, this woman wore a clinging dress that fit snugly around her tiny waist, her train dragging behind her by several feet. The whole thing was inlaid with seed pearls, plain in it’s own way and yet very elaborate, Ellens had been decorated with excessive amounts of embroidery and what Amos thought may have been doilies. Where Ellen had worn a veil that covered her dark hair, the front layer pulled over her face, this tiny woman wore her dark thick hair piled on top of her head in curls without a veil. In her arms she carried a large bouquet of white lilies and white roses, which she had come late last evening to clip from Amos garden. He thought Ellen would be pleased to know that a part of her effort and devotion had touched this special occasion, even so many years after her death. On his own wedding day, he had not been able to afford much more than silk flowers and ribbon to bind them with for Ellen, and yet she had looked just as radiant and proud as Maeling did at this very moment. Her dress combined with exotic features set her apart from every woman there. Jeremy met her in China, where they will return after their honeymoon for a few years until he can be transferred back to Canada where they can start a family. Amos doesn’t recognize all of the words in the ceremony, and their wedding is a blend of both customs and yet Amos finds it all familiar. A sad smile plays across his face as he thinks, watching thoughts and emotions playing across both Jeremy and Maelings face. Remembering the way his wife had looked at him standing in the very same position so many years ago and how he felt standing beside her, he supposes that language barriers and strange customs aside, love is the same in any language.
Later, at the wedding reception after dinner he slips his arm around his daughter, knowing she will understand that he is ready to go home. She smiles at him, looking as tired as he feels. He realizes again with a flash that his daughter is not a child anymore, she is not even a young woman. There must be days where she feels her own age. All the same, she smiles at him and tugs him out to the dance floor, the tune of “Brown Eyed Girl” blaring from the DJ’s speakers. This song has always been a favorite of hers, and she has only ever danced it with her father. Not really knowing why, Amos treasures those few minutes out on the dance floor, holding the woman he loves most.
untitled book- chapter 3
Ta-thump
June 19, 1993
It is the first really nice day of the summer season and Amos is 73 years old. Although he doesn’t work anymore, Amos still tries to get out in the community and stay active. He will be the first to admit that his joints hurt on a daily basis, and that there are days when it is a real struggle to accomplish the tasks he has set for himself. He still has his drivers license, and thankfully a car but he uses it rarely. He doesn’t feel the need to be out trolling around department stores without the purpose of buying something, but he will spend an entire day happily poking through flee markets and garden centers.
Today is not one of the days that Amos can happily do anything, and despite the warm sun Amos stares mournfully out his window at his wife’s quietly faltering flower garden. For all of the years since his green thumb of a wife died Amos has cared meticulously for her garden, tenderly replanting, weeding, watering, fertilizing and clipping her beautiful plants and flowers. Each year he goes to the garden center and re-supplies her gardening shed and begins planting the same flowers and fauna in the same colors that his wife left behind. Amos has spent countless hours on his knees crawling around the front yard and each year it has gotten harder and harder for him to keep that garden in the same condition his wife did. Over the years he has transferred his need to care for his wife, into a need to care for her garden in her absence and has finally come to the sad and heartbreaking conclusion that he can no longer do either. It is Wednesday today, and Amos is so downtrodden that he doesn’t even realize that Ella will be visiting him today.
When Ella arrives, she walks up the front walk noticing the wilting flowers, the weeds stubbornly poking through the flower bed, and her fathers gardening tools laid out but untouched. Amos is more than happy to see her but he is unable to feel his usual elation. Ella proves once again how adept and sensitive she is when she smiles and suggests they go out to the garden. Amos smiles gratefully at his daughter, pride shining through his sad eyes silently thanking her. Ella has spent so many years caring for him, he knows it is nearly impossible to hide his feelings from her. He follows slowly, she automatically slowing her steps to match his.
Ella drags a wooden garden chair over to the shade for Amos to sit on and supplies her father with a glass and a pitcher of lemonade she made in the house, placing it on the table beside him. They spend the rest of the day together in the front yard, Ella caring for her father by caring for the garden he can’t let go of. She pulls on his old gardening gloves, and the two of them talk companionably between bits of gardening advice and lore from her father. As Amos begins to let some of his melancholy mood go he eventually forgets his pains and happily joins Ella in the garden. She pulls the weeds out, tossing them in a growing pile and Amos waters the plants, slowly walking back and forth from the plants to the garden hose, filling up the watering can and back.
When they are almost done, Ella empties the rest of the lemonade into their two glasses and fills the pitcher with water. They make their small circuit around the garden gathering up their tools and putting them back in their garden shed. As they pass by the rose bushes, Ella stops to clip one or two from every bush. Roses were her mothers favorite flower and so there are many colors. On the largest red rosebush, Ella clips several flowers and she and Amos are pleased to find one white rose. It has bloomed there, standing out among the many red roses since Ellen had planted it, when it was no higher than mid shin. Now it towers above the other plants, stretching as high as the top of Amos head. With a look of fondness, both Amos and his daughter bend down to smell the rose remembering all the times Ellen told them not to pick it because it was good luck. Before she died, they tried every year to get her to clip it and every year she told them no, it was good luck to let it grow. The desire to clip it vanished, leaving them both wanting to leave it, as though a part of that well loved mother and wife were still there.
Before the afternoon is over, the entire garden is watered, weeded and loved, as is Amos. They sit companionably together with Ellas bare feet crossed in her fathers lap. Amos noticed that her toe nails are painted bright fire engine red and remembered the color for the rest of his life. Privately he thought his daughter was far too old with grandchildren of her own to wear such a bright color, besides which it belonged on a hooker.
He clearly remembers a day when he and his wife were sitting down to tea when Ella was three or four years old when they realized that they couldn’t hear her anymore. Quietly they crept upstairs, hoping to catch their daughter in the midst of her mischief; Ellen and Amos had learned from experience that dead silence during the daytime always meant that Ella was doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. They saw her through the doorway perched on a stool at her mothers vanity with Ellens favorite flower printed dress dangling at least a foot past her toes and a straw hat that kept drooping down past her eyes with her face powdered white and red lipstick smeared across her lips. Evidently she had also found her mothers mascara because she had used it to darken her eyebrows as her mother did giving her the appearance, from the eyes up that she was very angry. The two of them quietly chuckled at their daughter who looked like a tiny little drunken clown, sitting amidst an acrid haze of every perfume her mother owned. Today Ellas toes are exactly the same shade as that lipstick, and Amos decides that maybe that particular shade isn’t so inappropriate after all.
He doesn’t remember when, but at some point before supper time, Ella smiled Ellen’s beautiful smile at him and told him a parcel had been sent to him from China. Amos was surprised but had left excitement behind a long time ago, but Ella looked so excited to share this with him that he smiled knowing that if he had to jump up and down clapping to please her, he probably would.
Ella pulled from her shoulder bag a small box wrapped in brown paper. Amos opened it, noticing that it had come from his grandson. Inside the package he found a small folded piece of white cloth and although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Slowly he picked it up and it fell open showing blue writing on it. His eyes filled with tears as he read the words, and he sat there quietly laughing and crying feeling closer to his wife than he had in a long time, the smell of her flowers and the sun on his face a balm to the soul. That little white bit of material sat on his dresser for all of the rest of his years and he always remembered exactly how he felt when he read the words. “Congratulations Greatgrandpa!” The story that started when a dirty barefoot mouthy little girl threw an apple at him from the branches of an old apple tree was finally ending, and it was the most beautiful ending that he could imagine.
June 19, 1993
It is the first really nice day of the summer season and Amos is 73 years old. Although he doesn’t work anymore, Amos still tries to get out in the community and stay active. He will be the first to admit that his joints hurt on a daily basis, and that there are days when it is a real struggle to accomplish the tasks he has set for himself. He still has his drivers license, and thankfully a car but he uses it rarely. He doesn’t feel the need to be out trolling around department stores without the purpose of buying something, but he will spend an entire day happily poking through flee markets and garden centers.
Today is not one of the days that Amos can happily do anything, and despite the warm sun Amos stares mournfully out his window at his wife’s quietly faltering flower garden. For all of the years since his green thumb of a wife died Amos has cared meticulously for her garden, tenderly replanting, weeding, watering, fertilizing and clipping her beautiful plants and flowers. Each year he goes to the garden center and re-supplies her gardening shed and begins planting the same flowers and fauna in the same colors that his wife left behind. Amos has spent countless hours on his knees crawling around the front yard and each year it has gotten harder and harder for him to keep that garden in the same condition his wife did. Over the years he has transferred his need to care for his wife, into a need to care for her garden in her absence and has finally come to the sad and heartbreaking conclusion that he can no longer do either. It is Wednesday today, and Amos is so downtrodden that he doesn’t even realize that Ella will be visiting him today.
When Ella arrives, she walks up the front walk noticing the wilting flowers, the weeds stubbornly poking through the flower bed, and her fathers gardening tools laid out but untouched. Amos is more than happy to see her but he is unable to feel his usual elation. Ella proves once again how adept and sensitive she is when she smiles and suggests they go out to the garden. Amos smiles gratefully at his daughter, pride shining through his sad eyes silently thanking her. Ella has spent so many years caring for him, he knows it is nearly impossible to hide his feelings from her. He follows slowly, she automatically slowing her steps to match his.
Ella drags a wooden garden chair over to the shade for Amos to sit on and supplies her father with a glass and a pitcher of lemonade she made in the house, placing it on the table beside him. They spend the rest of the day together in the front yard, Ella caring for her father by caring for the garden he can’t let go of. She pulls on his old gardening gloves, and the two of them talk companionably between bits of gardening advice and lore from her father. As Amos begins to let some of his melancholy mood go he eventually forgets his pains and happily joins Ella in the garden. She pulls the weeds out, tossing them in a growing pile and Amos waters the plants, slowly walking back and forth from the plants to the garden hose, filling up the watering can and back.
When they are almost done, Ella empties the rest of the lemonade into their two glasses and fills the pitcher with water. They make their small circuit around the garden gathering up their tools and putting them back in their garden shed. As they pass by the rose bushes, Ella stops to clip one or two from every bush. Roses were her mothers favorite flower and so there are many colors. On the largest red rosebush, Ella clips several flowers and she and Amos are pleased to find one white rose. It has bloomed there, standing out among the many red roses since Ellen had planted it, when it was no higher than mid shin. Now it towers above the other plants, stretching as high as the top of Amos head. With a look of fondness, both Amos and his daughter bend down to smell the rose remembering all the times Ellen told them not to pick it because it was good luck. Before she died, they tried every year to get her to clip it and every year she told them no, it was good luck to let it grow. The desire to clip it vanished, leaving them both wanting to leave it, as though a part of that well loved mother and wife were still there.
Before the afternoon is over, the entire garden is watered, weeded and loved, as is Amos. They sit companionably together with Ellas bare feet crossed in her fathers lap. Amos noticed that her toe nails are painted bright fire engine red and remembered the color for the rest of his life. Privately he thought his daughter was far too old with grandchildren of her own to wear such a bright color, besides which it belonged on a hooker.
He clearly remembers a day when he and his wife were sitting down to tea when Ella was three or four years old when they realized that they couldn’t hear her anymore. Quietly they crept upstairs, hoping to catch their daughter in the midst of her mischief; Ellen and Amos had learned from experience that dead silence during the daytime always meant that Ella was doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. They saw her through the doorway perched on a stool at her mothers vanity with Ellens favorite flower printed dress dangling at least a foot past her toes and a straw hat that kept drooping down past her eyes with her face powdered white and red lipstick smeared across her lips. Evidently she had also found her mothers mascara because she had used it to darken her eyebrows as her mother did giving her the appearance, from the eyes up that she was very angry. The two of them quietly chuckled at their daughter who looked like a tiny little drunken clown, sitting amidst an acrid haze of every perfume her mother owned. Today Ellas toes are exactly the same shade as that lipstick, and Amos decides that maybe that particular shade isn’t so inappropriate after all.
He doesn’t remember when, but at some point before supper time, Ella smiled Ellen’s beautiful smile at him and told him a parcel had been sent to him from China. Amos was surprised but had left excitement behind a long time ago, but Ella looked so excited to share this with him that he smiled knowing that if he had to jump up and down clapping to please her, he probably would.
Ella pulled from her shoulder bag a small box wrapped in brown paper. Amos opened it, noticing that it had come from his grandson. Inside the package he found a small folded piece of white cloth and although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Slowly he picked it up and it fell open showing blue writing on it. His eyes filled with tears as he read the words, and he sat there quietly laughing and crying feeling closer to his wife than he had in a long time, the smell of her flowers and the sun on his face a balm to the soul. That little white bit of material sat on his dresser for all of the rest of his years and he always remembered exactly how he felt when he read the words. “Congratulations Greatgrandpa!” The story that started when a dirty barefoot mouthy little girl threw an apple at him from the branches of an old apple tree was finally ending, and it was the most beautiful ending that he could imagine.
untitled book- chapter 2
Ta-thump
December 24, 2006
It is Christmas Eve and Amos is 86 years old. He is surrounded by his family. His daughter Ella is there with her two children and their spouses, with their children in tow. Amos is very old, older than he ever thought he’d live to be. In truth, he is older than he wanted to be, but on this night he feels perfectly content. As he looks around at the dinner table, he sees three generations looking back at him, and he truly feels grateful. In each face, he can see some of himself and some of his wife. He wishes she could be here now, to see what their love had started.
Ella had come early with her husband with the turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and yams, the rolls and pickles. Her children Christopher and Catherine came with vegetables and salads, and their children Jacob and Jeremy came with desserts. Amos himself provided the wine, and later Scotch. He never says it out loud, but he is happy when every year at Christmas, his family spends an evening with him. It is the only time his house is filled with laughter and shared joy, the way it was when his daughter was small and Ellen was alive.
Once the supper is finished, his family decorates his tree for him. It is something they enjoy very much, because Amos has the most unusual tree. There are no lights and tinsel, no garland, no glass balls from department stores. Instead home made decorations are pulled out and discussed one at a time, stories are told and tears are shed. This has happened every year for as many years as he has had a family. The only difference is he has a tree that gets stored in his basement during the off season. His great grandson insists it’s called “going green” but it looks the same color as a real one to him. He doesn’t say this though because he has the distinct impression that there’s probably something he hasn’t picked up on. There usually is when it comes to communicating with his great grandchildren.
The first decoration pulled out of it’s box is Ella’s first walking shoe, laces still intact. Amos had saved up many pennies to pay for those, but they were worth it. Everyone listens as he quietly tells the story of how he gave them to her all wrapped up in a box, and how at two she refused to take them off even to sleep she loved them so much. When the story is finished, the shoe is lovingly placed on the tree.
Other decorations follow suit. A laminated picture of his wedding to Ellen, a story that doesn’t get told. The picture itself speaks louder than words. His great grandson’s first rattle, the one made of hard plastic that he cracked his cousin over the head with five years ago because he ate the last of the yams with marshmallows. Ella’s first spoon that she could use herself with the metal handle that Amos had bent himself to make it easier to hold. The family always laughs when Amos smiles and says “that was the year she discovered trajectory!”
The bracelet that his granddaughter Catherine wore home from the hospital is lovingly placed near the top of the tree, and her mother tells the story of her birth which is an unremarkable one as far as stories go, but the family does love to hear it. Amos’s first set of car keys gets placed on a particularly sturdy branch where they won’t fall and get lost. A bow that his wife made from Ella’s christening outfit and one from her own wedding dress are hung tenderly, the last by Amos himself.
There is a teaspoon from his daughters honeymoon, and one from his grandchildren’s as well. There are homemade decorations that the children came home from school with. A plastic cup from his great grandson’s first trip to wonderland when he was three. They had taken a photo and put it inside the cup. There are movie and concert ticket stubs from first dates, a corsage from a prom date that turned into a lifetime commitment. A positive pregnancy test result from his granddaughter who went to fertility doctors only to find out she could never conceive. A tiny booty, hand made with love and turned yellow with age. It is the memory of a child who never saw Christmas, but a child remembered every year. An old locket that Amos only vaguely remembers from his childhood, hanging from the neck of a woman who encompassed safety and home.
Post cards, mementos and tokens are slowly brought out of their boxes and each one deserving of it’s rightful spot on the tree. Each year someone brings a new decoration and the whole family, Amos included, will crowd around to hear the story that comes with it, eager for something new. Eager to share in the triumph or experience that comes with the newest addition to the family tree. This year, it is Jacob’s report card and he proudly tells the story of how he improved his grades in school. Jeremy brings in his ribbon from a Judo competition he was in last month, and everyone claps at the end.
The last decoration to be hung on the tree is in a small black velvet box. Nobody opens it, nobody even touches it. Amos knows it is his turn to tell a story and hang a decoration. With a tenderness rarely seen on his old face, Amos reaches down and gently picks up the box, cradling it in his twisted hand as he hobbles to the tree. He removes a gold band, a wedding band tied with string and hangs it on the tree. He says the same thing he always says, only “it’s what she wanted”. Now Amos can sit back down, and look at his tree with his family. It is covered in love, achievements and pride.
The rest of the memory is lost to Amos, he doesn’t experience the gift opening or the goodbye’s at the end of the night. Amos experiences only what meant the most to him. The last get together with everyone, the last decorating of the tree. The last time his house was filled with love and laughter. It was enough.
December 24, 2006
It is Christmas Eve and Amos is 86 years old. He is surrounded by his family. His daughter Ella is there with her two children and their spouses, with their children in tow. Amos is very old, older than he ever thought he’d live to be. In truth, he is older than he wanted to be, but on this night he feels perfectly content. As he looks around at the dinner table, he sees three generations looking back at him, and he truly feels grateful. In each face, he can see some of himself and some of his wife. He wishes she could be here now, to see what their love had started.
Ella had come early with her husband with the turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and yams, the rolls and pickles. Her children Christopher and Catherine came with vegetables and salads, and their children Jacob and Jeremy came with desserts. Amos himself provided the wine, and later Scotch. He never says it out loud, but he is happy when every year at Christmas, his family spends an evening with him. It is the only time his house is filled with laughter and shared joy, the way it was when his daughter was small and Ellen was alive.
Once the supper is finished, his family decorates his tree for him. It is something they enjoy very much, because Amos has the most unusual tree. There are no lights and tinsel, no garland, no glass balls from department stores. Instead home made decorations are pulled out and discussed one at a time, stories are told and tears are shed. This has happened every year for as many years as he has had a family. The only difference is he has a tree that gets stored in his basement during the off season. His great grandson insists it’s called “going green” but it looks the same color as a real one to him. He doesn’t say this though because he has the distinct impression that there’s probably something he hasn’t picked up on. There usually is when it comes to communicating with his great grandchildren.
The first decoration pulled out of it’s box is Ella’s first walking shoe, laces still intact. Amos had saved up many pennies to pay for those, but they were worth it. Everyone listens as he quietly tells the story of how he gave them to her all wrapped up in a box, and how at two she refused to take them off even to sleep she loved them so much. When the story is finished, the shoe is lovingly placed on the tree.
Other decorations follow suit. A laminated picture of his wedding to Ellen, a story that doesn’t get told. The picture itself speaks louder than words. His great grandson’s first rattle, the one made of hard plastic that he cracked his cousin over the head with five years ago because he ate the last of the yams with marshmallows. Ella’s first spoon that she could use herself with the metal handle that Amos had bent himself to make it easier to hold. The family always laughs when Amos smiles and says “that was the year she discovered trajectory!”
The bracelet that his granddaughter Catherine wore home from the hospital is lovingly placed near the top of the tree, and her mother tells the story of her birth which is an unremarkable one as far as stories go, but the family does love to hear it. Amos’s first set of car keys gets placed on a particularly sturdy branch where they won’t fall and get lost. A bow that his wife made from Ella’s christening outfit and one from her own wedding dress are hung tenderly, the last by Amos himself.
There is a teaspoon from his daughters honeymoon, and one from his grandchildren’s as well. There are homemade decorations that the children came home from school with. A plastic cup from his great grandson’s first trip to wonderland when he was three. They had taken a photo and put it inside the cup. There are movie and concert ticket stubs from first dates, a corsage from a prom date that turned into a lifetime commitment. A positive pregnancy test result from his granddaughter who went to fertility doctors only to find out she could never conceive. A tiny booty, hand made with love and turned yellow with age. It is the memory of a child who never saw Christmas, but a child remembered every year. An old locket that Amos only vaguely remembers from his childhood, hanging from the neck of a woman who encompassed safety and home.
Post cards, mementos and tokens are slowly brought out of their boxes and each one deserving of it’s rightful spot on the tree. Each year someone brings a new decoration and the whole family, Amos included, will crowd around to hear the story that comes with it, eager for something new. Eager to share in the triumph or experience that comes with the newest addition to the family tree. This year, it is Jacob’s report card and he proudly tells the story of how he improved his grades in school. Jeremy brings in his ribbon from a Judo competition he was in last month, and everyone claps at the end.
The last decoration to be hung on the tree is in a small black velvet box. Nobody opens it, nobody even touches it. Amos knows it is his turn to tell a story and hang a decoration. With a tenderness rarely seen on his old face, Amos reaches down and gently picks up the box, cradling it in his twisted hand as he hobbles to the tree. He removes a gold band, a wedding band tied with string and hangs it on the tree. He says the same thing he always says, only “it’s what she wanted”. Now Amos can sit back down, and look at his tree with his family. It is covered in love, achievements and pride.
The rest of the memory is lost to Amos, he doesn’t experience the gift opening or the goodbye’s at the end of the night. Amos experiences only what meant the most to him. The last get together with everyone, the last decorating of the tree. The last time his house was filled with love and laughter. It was enough.
as yet untitled book- chapter 1
Amos Stevenson is 87 years old, his back is bowed, his knuckles crooked. It takes serious concentration and effort for him to open and close his arthritic fingers, and the cane that is supposed to save his knees and hips causes him a torment in his wrist that he has lived with for so many days he has ceased to think of them in terms of time, and rather than segment it into individual numbers has just jumbled it together and called it a really long time. What is left of his hair is all white, and his face is a mass of liver spots, lines and crags. He walks slowly and painfully, taking great care to watch where he puts his feet allowing his old heart and lungs to keep up with him. On his face, he usually wears a grimace, weather pain or impatience or something else, even he doesn’t bother analyzing it. His stature is stooped from osteoporosis so looking down is not difficult, it is looking up that he doesn’t usually manage to do. His hands and arms are lined with faint scars that hide in the wrinkles, a testament to his hard work in the factory jobs he always worked to support his small family. He is thin, as he always was, which is a blessing because supporting what weight he does carry is hard enough.
He is not the gentle, jolly old man that makes mothers smile and children want to climb into his lap to play and cuddle with. He is not the kind of old man that young people offer to help, nor is he the type that cashiers gently smile at and ask him how he is feeling. He does not engage in lawn bowling or bridge with other seniors, and probably wouldn’t if he was invited. Amos is not the kind of man that looks inviting, or even nice. In his old age, Amos has turned as close to invisible as it is possible to be before death. He slides through his town as if he is a ghost.
Every morning, except the bad ones, Amos takes several hours to wake up and ready himself allowing his joints time to loosen after a long night of sleep. He has no schedule to keep, and no appointments to make. He dresses in old clothes that have hung in his closet for years, the pants threadbare and the once white tshirts yellowed with age. He walks the short block to the neighborhood grocery store, passing the same neighbors every day. Some of them wave at him and he wonders if they even know his name, because he surely doesn’t know theirs. He picks up whatever necessities are needed for him to feed himself for the day. Ham, cheese and sometimes bread and a can of soup. His daughter will buy the rest for him when she comes to see him. He sees the same cashiers in lineups, they say the same hellos and goodbyes without really seeing the person they are being professionally polite to. Then he takes his one bag home with him where he spends the rest of the day alone.
Each night he slowly undresses before bed and then climbs in on the left always leaving the right side untouched as if he is waiting for someone to take their place beside him. There is no one anymore, but there is a picture of her on his nightstand which he looks at every night as he falls asleep with one hand stretched out on her side of the bed, as though he is waiting to take her hand. Whenever he thinks of her, he almost always remembers her looking like she does in this photograph.
She is looking behind her, laughing into the camera with the sun in front of her throwing out rays and her sun browned skin, making her look dipped in golden dust. Her hair is flying in the wind, and the ocean waves stretch out in front of her beyond the pier she’s running down. Her daughters little hand is clasped in her own, and the two of them wear identical looks of quiet delight on their summer warmed faces. Their daughter is dressed in a pink gingham dress with a white button down front, and a pair of patent leather shoes that she loves. His wife is wearing a yellow summer dress, with the hem falling just below the knees. Both of their lips are lightly stained from candy apples and cotton candy from the annual fair.
To the rest of the world, Amos is just an old man the same as every other old man, alone and bitter. As is often the case, the community he lives in sees only what is right in front of them. It doesn’t occur to them to wonder why Amos might look angry and bitter, and it doesn’t occur to them that the reason his clothes are faded is simply because his wife had bought them for him years ago and he can’t bring himself to get rid of them, and that they are yellowed is simply because his eyesight is as old as he is and like him, not as good as it used to be. The people around him don’t feel his knees and hips hurt with every step he takes, or the pain in his back that follows him wherever he goes as though all of the burdens he has carried through his life had finally caught up with him and settled into his bones like dust in the corners of an attic. They don’t see him alone in his house, holding hands in his sleep with his dead wife. Nobody sees the eyes that seem so angry light up every Wednesday with the knowledge that his daughter is coming from the city on her day off to talk with him, play cards with him and baby him. They don’t see the pride in his eyes or hear the joy in his voice while he listens and laughs at the stories she tells him of his two grandchildren. They didn’t see him playing trains with his grandson, nor did they see him dressing dolls in clothes for his granddaughter while unabashedly wearing a tiara or firemans hat when they were young children. They don’t see him sit down to tea at three sharp, pour out one cup of tea and set it at the table and then sit in the chair beside it. Nobody, not even his wife knew how much he detested tea even though he drank a cup with her every day while she lived, and had poured her one every day since her death. It never occurred to him to tell her, and if it had he probably wouldn’t have. It was worth drinking tea with her just to sit down beside her for the half hour it took to choke it down.
On the last day of Amos life, he awoke the same way he always did. Painfully and slowly. He didn’t know it was his last day, but if he did he would have been happy that it happened on a Wednesday. On Wednesdays Amos gets to see his daughter Ella. He will trace her face, so like her mothers in the unobtrusive way that only a father that loves his daughter more than life can do. Seeing her now in mid sixties, he is struck anew at how like her mother she looks. She has her high cheekbones and dark hair. The faint lines around her eyes and mouth only remind him of his wife more, they even aged in the same way; beautifully . He can remember clearly how she looked asleep in her bed with her thumb in her mouth, or the impish grin she gave him with jam on her face when he caught her eating it straight from the jar.
He will complain minimally, and will accept all of the help she has to offer because it means she is there with him. They will go through the same routines they always do. He will help her put away the groceries she brings him. She will wash and he will dry, they will fold and hang the laundry together. They will ask each other short questions with short answers, the comfortable silences between them saying more than what they can with words. They are comfortable with the silences that always come, and in the routines they share. She has been coming every Wednesday since she was in college when her mother died.
He will also sit down at three, and drink tea with his daughter who like her mother loves the taste and also like her mother is completely unaware that he doesn‘t, and like he always did with his Ellen he will sit there happy in the company around him and he will drink in and soak up every story and all the love she has to offer. She will do her best to put a smile on his face and so she plays cards with him or, when he is too tired for cards she will read to him. He has never told her which books to read, and she knows it doesn’t matter. He is listening to her voice, not her words.
He will fall asleep after his tea and she cleans his house, tidying the things he doesn’t think to bother with and he will sleep with the ease he did years ago when he was comforted with the knowledge that all of his family was at home and safe. When he wakes up, there is always the blanket his wife made pulled up to his chin. He never bothers to cover himself and is always pleased to find himself that way. Sometimes she will take him out for coffee, and sometimes it is doctors appointments or pharmacies that he has to visit. Either way, he is pleased to have her company and more than pleased to have a ride.
When she leaves he will stand at the front door and wave as she drives away. He will never see the tears of guilt that slide down her cheeks as she drives away from her father, and it will not occur to him that they are there. He never suspects that her leaving is as painful for his forlorn old heart to bear as it is for her to leave that old heart behind. He cannot see that the smile he forces makes him look that much more lonely.
After a supper that Ella always brings with her, Amos pads to the bathroom and showers. He turns the water as hot as he can stand it and waits for the aching to dull. He will go to the medicine cabinet and take his medication for his heart, his blood pressure, his angina and the godforsaken vitamins that his daughter brings for him. He is sure she counts them and he can’t bear to disappoint her, and so he swallows them along with all the rest figuring that at least they can’t hurt him. He will brush his teeth and smooth his hair down, combing it has been an act in futility for years. Then he will walk into his bedroom, the same bedroom he took his young wife to for the first time more than sixty years ago. The same bedroom she gave him his daughter in, the same bedroom he fell asleep in beside her for all of the happiest days of his life. He will walk in there with a pang of loneliness that he scarcely recognizes anymore, it is now as familiar to him as his wife. He pulls back the covers and settles himself, with his hand stretched out as he always does, waiting for a hand that doesn’t exist to hold. He does these things as he has done them every night without ever thinking that he will continue to do them for however many nights he has left. It is as natural as breathing now. It just happens that this is his last night, and that however many times he has woken up with the same habits as he does when he goes to bed, tomorrow will be very different. Tomorrow he will not wake up slowly and painfully. Unlike every other day, tomorrow he will not wake up. Unlike every other day, he will not be in pain, he will not be lonely. He will also be smiling.
As Amos falls asleep, he doesn’t notice that his heart is beating just a little slower than it did the night before, he only vaguely notices that he feels more relaxed than usual. Amos feels no pain as his heart begins to stop. He is one of the lucky ones that escape disease and heart attacks. Amos is dying in his sleep. From somewhere deep inside him, Amos can feel the gap in time between heartbeats and he can feel that the spaces are getting longer. His conscious and subconscious mind together slide into the spaces between heartbeats like sand between stones on the banks of a river. He doesn’t realize it, but his sense of time slows and he is able to relive his most influential memories and experiences between one ta-thump and the next. By the time he reaches the last dim memory, his heart will stop as though it was fated to do so. Amos mind will have traveled backwards through time, retracing the footprints of his life. If he could say thank you to someone he would, for giving him back his happiest moments and giving him the ability to see and feel his loved ones one last time.
This is Amos last experience, these are his memories. This is his story.
He is not the gentle, jolly old man that makes mothers smile and children want to climb into his lap to play and cuddle with. He is not the kind of old man that young people offer to help, nor is he the type that cashiers gently smile at and ask him how he is feeling. He does not engage in lawn bowling or bridge with other seniors, and probably wouldn’t if he was invited. Amos is not the kind of man that looks inviting, or even nice. In his old age, Amos has turned as close to invisible as it is possible to be before death. He slides through his town as if he is a ghost.
Every morning, except the bad ones, Amos takes several hours to wake up and ready himself allowing his joints time to loosen after a long night of sleep. He has no schedule to keep, and no appointments to make. He dresses in old clothes that have hung in his closet for years, the pants threadbare and the once white tshirts yellowed with age. He walks the short block to the neighborhood grocery store, passing the same neighbors every day. Some of them wave at him and he wonders if they even know his name, because he surely doesn’t know theirs. He picks up whatever necessities are needed for him to feed himself for the day. Ham, cheese and sometimes bread and a can of soup. His daughter will buy the rest for him when she comes to see him. He sees the same cashiers in lineups, they say the same hellos and goodbyes without really seeing the person they are being professionally polite to. Then he takes his one bag home with him where he spends the rest of the day alone.
Each night he slowly undresses before bed and then climbs in on the left always leaving the right side untouched as if he is waiting for someone to take their place beside him. There is no one anymore, but there is a picture of her on his nightstand which he looks at every night as he falls asleep with one hand stretched out on her side of the bed, as though he is waiting to take her hand. Whenever he thinks of her, he almost always remembers her looking like she does in this photograph.
She is looking behind her, laughing into the camera with the sun in front of her throwing out rays and her sun browned skin, making her look dipped in golden dust. Her hair is flying in the wind, and the ocean waves stretch out in front of her beyond the pier she’s running down. Her daughters little hand is clasped in her own, and the two of them wear identical looks of quiet delight on their summer warmed faces. Their daughter is dressed in a pink gingham dress with a white button down front, and a pair of patent leather shoes that she loves. His wife is wearing a yellow summer dress, with the hem falling just below the knees. Both of their lips are lightly stained from candy apples and cotton candy from the annual fair.
To the rest of the world, Amos is just an old man the same as every other old man, alone and bitter. As is often the case, the community he lives in sees only what is right in front of them. It doesn’t occur to them to wonder why Amos might look angry and bitter, and it doesn’t occur to them that the reason his clothes are faded is simply because his wife had bought them for him years ago and he can’t bring himself to get rid of them, and that they are yellowed is simply because his eyesight is as old as he is and like him, not as good as it used to be. The people around him don’t feel his knees and hips hurt with every step he takes, or the pain in his back that follows him wherever he goes as though all of the burdens he has carried through his life had finally caught up with him and settled into his bones like dust in the corners of an attic. They don’t see him alone in his house, holding hands in his sleep with his dead wife. Nobody sees the eyes that seem so angry light up every Wednesday with the knowledge that his daughter is coming from the city on her day off to talk with him, play cards with him and baby him. They don’t see the pride in his eyes or hear the joy in his voice while he listens and laughs at the stories she tells him of his two grandchildren. They didn’t see him playing trains with his grandson, nor did they see him dressing dolls in clothes for his granddaughter while unabashedly wearing a tiara or firemans hat when they were young children. They don’t see him sit down to tea at three sharp, pour out one cup of tea and set it at the table and then sit in the chair beside it. Nobody, not even his wife knew how much he detested tea even though he drank a cup with her every day while she lived, and had poured her one every day since her death. It never occurred to him to tell her, and if it had he probably wouldn’t have. It was worth drinking tea with her just to sit down beside her for the half hour it took to choke it down.
On the last day of Amos life, he awoke the same way he always did. Painfully and slowly. He didn’t know it was his last day, but if he did he would have been happy that it happened on a Wednesday. On Wednesdays Amos gets to see his daughter Ella. He will trace her face, so like her mothers in the unobtrusive way that only a father that loves his daughter more than life can do. Seeing her now in mid sixties, he is struck anew at how like her mother she looks. She has her high cheekbones and dark hair. The faint lines around her eyes and mouth only remind him of his wife more, they even aged in the same way; beautifully . He can remember clearly how she looked asleep in her bed with her thumb in her mouth, or the impish grin she gave him with jam on her face when he caught her eating it straight from the jar.
He will complain minimally, and will accept all of the help she has to offer because it means she is there with him. They will go through the same routines they always do. He will help her put away the groceries she brings him. She will wash and he will dry, they will fold and hang the laundry together. They will ask each other short questions with short answers, the comfortable silences between them saying more than what they can with words. They are comfortable with the silences that always come, and in the routines they share. She has been coming every Wednesday since she was in college when her mother died.
He will also sit down at three, and drink tea with his daughter who like her mother loves the taste and also like her mother is completely unaware that he doesn‘t, and like he always did with his Ellen he will sit there happy in the company around him and he will drink in and soak up every story and all the love she has to offer. She will do her best to put a smile on his face and so she plays cards with him or, when he is too tired for cards she will read to him. He has never told her which books to read, and she knows it doesn’t matter. He is listening to her voice, not her words.
He will fall asleep after his tea and she cleans his house, tidying the things he doesn’t think to bother with and he will sleep with the ease he did years ago when he was comforted with the knowledge that all of his family was at home and safe. When he wakes up, there is always the blanket his wife made pulled up to his chin. He never bothers to cover himself and is always pleased to find himself that way. Sometimes she will take him out for coffee, and sometimes it is doctors appointments or pharmacies that he has to visit. Either way, he is pleased to have her company and more than pleased to have a ride.
When she leaves he will stand at the front door and wave as she drives away. He will never see the tears of guilt that slide down her cheeks as she drives away from her father, and it will not occur to him that they are there. He never suspects that her leaving is as painful for his forlorn old heart to bear as it is for her to leave that old heart behind. He cannot see that the smile he forces makes him look that much more lonely.
After a supper that Ella always brings with her, Amos pads to the bathroom and showers. He turns the water as hot as he can stand it and waits for the aching to dull. He will go to the medicine cabinet and take his medication for his heart, his blood pressure, his angina and the godforsaken vitamins that his daughter brings for him. He is sure she counts them and he can’t bear to disappoint her, and so he swallows them along with all the rest figuring that at least they can’t hurt him. He will brush his teeth and smooth his hair down, combing it has been an act in futility for years. Then he will walk into his bedroom, the same bedroom he took his young wife to for the first time more than sixty years ago. The same bedroom she gave him his daughter in, the same bedroom he fell asleep in beside her for all of the happiest days of his life. He will walk in there with a pang of loneliness that he scarcely recognizes anymore, it is now as familiar to him as his wife. He pulls back the covers and settles himself, with his hand stretched out as he always does, waiting for a hand that doesn’t exist to hold. He does these things as he has done them every night without ever thinking that he will continue to do them for however many nights he has left. It is as natural as breathing now. It just happens that this is his last night, and that however many times he has woken up with the same habits as he does when he goes to bed, tomorrow will be very different. Tomorrow he will not wake up slowly and painfully. Unlike every other day, tomorrow he will not wake up. Unlike every other day, he will not be in pain, he will not be lonely. He will also be smiling.
As Amos falls asleep, he doesn’t notice that his heart is beating just a little slower than it did the night before, he only vaguely notices that he feels more relaxed than usual. Amos feels no pain as his heart begins to stop. He is one of the lucky ones that escape disease and heart attacks. Amos is dying in his sleep. From somewhere deep inside him, Amos can feel the gap in time between heartbeats and he can feel that the spaces are getting longer. His conscious and subconscious mind together slide into the spaces between heartbeats like sand between stones on the banks of a river. He doesn’t realize it, but his sense of time slows and he is able to relive his most influential memories and experiences between one ta-thump and the next. By the time he reaches the last dim memory, his heart will stop as though it was fated to do so. Amos mind will have traveled backwards through time, retracing the footprints of his life. If he could say thank you to someone he would, for giving him back his happiest moments and giving him the ability to see and feel his loved ones one last time.
This is Amos last experience, these are his memories. This is his story.
