Tears

When really important things come into our lives, sometimes we don’t seem to notice.

It was like that when I found my way to the Speckled Biter, my first dog.

My sister was having a child and he wasn’t adjusting well. I suggested that she wait before making any final decisions. And bring him to me.

This persnickety Dalmatian arrived and I had no intention of owning him, no idea how to feed or walk him. I wasn’t really sure why he was there. I was sparing him from a certain destiny but not sure what I was delivering him to. I didn’t know yet that he liked to spoon and fit perfectly in my arc.

Somehow we bonded. Looking back I don’t even remember how, but he became mine. We worked through a routine: a sleeping pattern, a time to go to bed, a way to walk around the park. Food he liked or didn’t and that simple consistency which makes all creatures feel safe; breakfast at this time and a walk after that.

Dogs wrap themselves around our hearts slowly in a way we don’t immediately sense. They wink as they integrate into our lives and unsuspectingly heal our bumps and bruises. They become the mortar that seals the chinks and make us laugh when we have no reason to. They love us for our presence and slowly we count on them waiting at the door, their company on that long ride home. They live for us and expect very little in return.

I knew he was old. We were intimately acquainted with excursions to the vet – the round-trip ones. The ones where I begged the angels above enough reverence to glue my salvation back together and forgive my trespasses. I needed him; he couldn’t leave me. We seemed to make it through.

Last Sunday we had the terrible accident. I picked him up and put him in the passenger seat. My mind faltered as I sought a destination close enough to help. I had to make sure he was still breathing and put my hand over his heart as we drove. I could feel his soul seeping and knew this was the one-way ticket.

All I could do was chant for him – an odd Buddhist rhythm someone taught me long ago: “Nam me-oh-ho renge ke-o” over and over again. That was what got me to the hospital. I kept telling him that I loved him.

I have never been with someone I could feel dying but I could feel him waning, slowly. It requires bravery to release the tether of the being attached to you. His departure needed to be more important than my sadness at seeing him go.

Then suddenly there was me with a 75 lbs. dog in my arms at 9:30 on Sunday morning hoping they’d open the door at the veterinary hospital. There was the steel table with the wheels and someone who said “put him down here.” There was the water machine where I was relieved the glasses were big enough for more than just one sip. There was the grip of grief waiting for me whom I asked for just a minute or two more. There were the x-rays, the diagnosis, the improbability of Elmer’s glue, the sad tech in the green scrubs who told me to “have a seat”, followed by the stalwart doctor in the blue ones who told me the score. Then there was the phone call I asked to make outside, returning to the front counter and the gorgeous German Sheppard too proud to see my pain.

Then there was my friend, no longer the dog I used to know. A crumpled pile of spots, a black and white face clinging to his former self underneath a hyper-ventilating woman telling him she loves him.

And that was how I said good-bye.

I stood smelling of the cows from my father’s farm, over the corpse of my dying dog, heaving sobs of sadness I never knew existed, fearing corners of loneliness I never knew were there.

But my feet held me upright and I hugged him as I heard the lady in the blue tell me she was ready. I held his head and kissed his face and told him he’d been a great friend and that we’d had a great run.

And as I felt him go, I let the tears roll.

Shit Show

This week has been disquieting to anyone and everyone. For financial reasons, for future reasoning and for not knowing if we will go left or right in November.

However I have braved my own storm.

Last Friday the Speckled Biter seemed to go to the bathroom – No. 2 which is the most polite way I can say it, inside. This is unusual and troubling. He is old but very well trained. He bites but doesn’t pee or poop indoors. Life is a trade-off.

Saturday night I headed to a party I had reservations about but which turned out to be actually inhabited by wonderfully interesting people I enjoyed seeing, however I digress.

Sunday morning, the first relaxed slumber in many months, evolved in what seemed to be a lovely fashion. I was calm, quelled in my down pillows and soft sheets dreaming away when early Sunday morning something startled me. It was a bad feeling, an odd smell and something overall was not right.

I looked left, screamed and jumped out of bed. I have now experienced, up close and personal, shitting the bed. It is alarming, dreadful and perhaps not possibly described.

Unpleasant as it was, this is love. Four legged creatures evoke our most unguarded devotion. This was not enough to wear away the edges. I worried perhaps Speckled Biter was losing control which is tragically inevitable at 13, however I shoved it to the back of my mind.

Sunday proceeded and my mother’s birthday lobster dinner filed forth. Fun, great friends, lots of laughs. In the midst of emptying a shell bucket I caught the glimpse of a white head with black spots sticking up in the back seat of my pick-up truck.

Speckles often gets locked down in my truck because he likes it – it is like a crate only one with four wheels. So he happily removes himself in times of high traffic.

As I saw his head poke up, my immediate thought was

“That can’t be good.”

I strode past in my apron with a bucket full of lobster tails and smelled it — YIKES. Houston, we have a problem.

I knew enough to know it was all over him, all over the car and was a mess difficult to reconcile.

Best Cape Cod friend (BCCF) stepped up to the rescue. I tentatively explained the situation and he deduced what would work best. He asked me for some shampoo and I dashed inside asking not to upset the semi-drunk dinner party inside.

I had little resistance darting here and there to find paper towels, rubber gloves and the like required for these types of indemnities. Unfortunately I had underestimated what had gone wrong. BCCF held Speckled Biter’s collar as he washed him off with the hose and it was torrid at best.

As soon as Speckles was washed we re-deposited him in my bedroom and hoped for the best.

Lobsters are the worst meal to cook. They are delicious and easy to prepare but the clean up is a bear. Alternating between dog shit and empty lobster tails falls under the “not so much” category.

A couple of hours later I returned to find my room a modified version of the shit show that had premiered in my back seat.

Speckles was at it all night – four times at least. It was everywhere – on clothes, towels, carpets and car seats. All I could do Monday morning was to take a hose to the refuse and pitch it in the bed of my pick-up.

It ceased as dawn approached but I called the vet in Boston and we headed home. The diagnosis was not death but bad-park-stomach-flu and I was told it would taper off in 2-3 days.

Do you have any idea of my laundry situation here lady?!?

My personal favorite was that upon exiting the vet I thought I should have a bite as I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in quite some time. I left the Speckled Biter seemingly better riding shotgun and took a lunch break.

Feeling efficient post-lunch we headed to the carpet cleaner to drop off the hosed-off but smoldering carpet and suddenly that familiar smell came wafting back. The Spotted Unibomber had struck again, only this time in the front seat.

I canceled my meetings, pulled on latex gloves, found ammonia and started praying.

Thankfully post-vet visit Speckles stopped however I have never experienced anything quite like it.

On the plus side I have now actually lived through Shitting The Bed, a Shit Storm, The Shit all leading up to the grand finale of the Shit Show.

The good news is you get inoculated as it goes on.

Summer and the Hipsters

I have missed my Speckled Biter Blog and after a prolonged absence have returned.

The Speckled Biter turned 13 August 1st! He happily remains in good health, all of his spots are on and he continues his poor habits which in his seniority I regard with a certain amount of respect – if he likes you he won’t bite you. It is relatively straightforward.

It was a funny summer which started late and hopefully has not ended yet. It seemed as though an endless rain cloud hovered over Boston for most of July which the flowers liked but was rather dreary for the rest of us. August was a blur of family, my nephews and sadly few trips to my favorite beach. In looking back, frankly, I am not sure where it went.

I have taken up knitting and shooting which is a strange combination. I am determined to knit my way out of smoking and shoot my way out of everything else. Kidding aside, it takes a lot of time and skill to be a marksman but I have decided to dive in headfirst.

The economy is flipping, the politicians drone on and the outlook seems rather dismal. No one seems to have answers only pointing fingers filled with blame. It’s tawdry at best. In short I think the next few years will be very different than the past.

However, the current upheaval leads only to my prior fashion concerns.

The weekend after Labor Day I went to my cousin’s wedding. It was a rather posh affair in Millbrook, New York which is a lovely farm town I have never seen before. I went with Best Boston Friend (BBF) and as we asked our kind hostess who bunked us for directions, she told us to turn left at the windsock for the helipad.

There had been an engagement party in May or June at the Gramercy Park Hotel on the roof. It was a lovely spot but staying in the hotel I soon knew it embodied with every pore of its being the kind of New York we are all that and a bag of chips establishment that makes me want to run screaming back to Boston and beg for the Pilgrims to return. Obnoxious, ridiculous and with a catastrophic room rate it is the kind of behavior that will hopefully be curtailed by our latest woes.

Weddings can be strange but the people watching was excellent – an odd mix of anorexic New York socialites, New England WASPs with their hands awkwardly stuffed down their khaki pockets with dangling blue blazers at their sides and as I have dubbed them the Village Hipsters.

Reconvening for the wedding weekend I was unsure what to expect.

The first night was a Pig Roast. That sounded easy enough although it landed me in somewhat of a wardrobe kerfluffle. I get New York, I get Italian, I even get Farmy (Wellington boots and Barbour jackets) however none of the above seemed appropriate. So I packed with the kitchen sink approach and threw on what seemed best at the last minute.

Upon arrival at the Pig Roast we took stock. Immediately BBF mentioned that we had missed the hat memo. Oddly perched upon several heads were ill-fitting fedoras and other iterations of bizarre head gear. There were lots of skinny jeans – which I happen to think look dreadful unless you are Kate Moss, baggy shirts and short-shorts all kinds of items which left me nothing short of perplexed.

I was confounded. Maybe I was suffering from the geriatric implications of the Speckled Biter or had lost contact with the fashion world. What were these people wearing? It was an odd mix of hippie chic, LA skate rats meet the Olsen twins and borrowed Justin Timberlake’s fedora then along the way met up with the Manson children. YIKES!

Maybe I am getting old but I was thoroughly confused. There are certain things I understand which are classic Italian designers and “timeless” pieces fashion magazines often remark upon as investments. I was struck dumb by vintage scavenging just outside of the heliport.

I asked around, embarrassed at having to do so, but learned this had been going on for some time. “On the Upper East Side too?” I inquired and was told no so I am relieved to know it may not just be misunderstood by me secluded in our parochial and provincial town with a dog who in human years is 91.

In short, my dog is old but still bites and my summer was as confusing as the dress code at the wedding I went to two weeks ago. However I am glad to have foregone skinny jeans and forgotten to borrow a fedora.

But it occurred to me that the hipsters may have a leg up on the dumpster diving yet to come.

The YOU SUCK Moment

Writing classes are difficult endeavors. Pencil had not been put to paper for a while. Structure works well for me so I was eager to sign on again.

This is a fiction class, one semi-difficult to get into but also a big class with a dozen participants. I have had great experiences, for example with a Memoir class filled with unexpectedly extraordinary people all of whom were great writers with distinct voices. We bonded, relatively quickly.

This class was just not that way or didn’t seem so.

I missed the first one being on vacation. I walked into the second class late (a bad tendency) and sat down un-introduced slinking further and further into my chair while the featured reading continued.

This was not a good beginning.

For each class we read a story demonstrating a particular technique and then move on to a critique of everyone’s work, each lasting about 14 minutes. Obviously as a writer this is subjective and sensitive especially with folks who don’t know your name.

My first class established the YOU SUCK principle.

I had submitted via email. You are not allowed to talk as the class critiques your work. My vignette which I knew wasn’t destined for The New Yorker was ripped to shreds. 14 minutes can be a very long time.

Trying to brush criticism aside I ventured to the next class, fearful but hoping for better. Sadly it evoked the same response.

I was sure it was the karma, the chemistry, the people, their writing style. Whatever it was it wasn’t grooving.

The Thick-Skinned Facer of Consequences I did the upstanding thing and decided to quit. I gave one more assignment a last try but decided I am reminded enough of my deficiencies perhaps three hours every Wednesday night for the next six was overkill.

Then at tonight’s class the strangest thing happened. They liked my story.

I reached outside the box in the moment of walking away gritted my teeth enough to show muster. I hadn’t determined to prove them wrong I had determined to be gone.

Then they liked it. I felt like Sally Field accepting her Oscar.

So maybe it does take people time to bond, maybe they will remember my name, maybe your writing does get better the more you do it. Maybe trying something different produces better results. Maybe strangers drag you into your best light after they have shaken you down.

As a writer and as a person there will be plenty more YOU SUCK moments. But just maybe keeping on is what keeps you on.

The Boozy Brunch

It has been a long week.

Went on vacation to the most beautifully blissful spa and turned back again. Returning to work was dreadful. I just had trouble with that groove which was unusual.

Thank goodness for the boozy brunch.

I met old friends today for a bite and drink or two. We do business together and it was a delight to have the space of mind to reminisce and the luxury of time to remember. We talked about the old days and kicked around hopes and dreams. We hashed out current issues.

There is just nothing as lazily luxurious as Sunday brunch. It is a time to let go without necessarily knowing you are doing so, especially on a long weekend as it is for us with the Boston Marathon tomorrow.

We took cigarette breaks. Even though I am a smoker I have become closet just because no one practices anymore. It was nice to have the company.

We laughed about what is going well, we talked about what is disappointing but mostly we just held the moment of a beautiful April afternoon. And ordered another pinot.

I have been a tad blue. The Speckled Biter has been not so good. Post-vacation I returned to find a marked decline. It breaks my heart but I am not the person who will attach wheels to my dog’s failing back ones. I have known for a while he is living mostly on love. I never talked about it today with my friends – just didn’t want to.

After visiting the vet I realized the time isn’t now, not quite today, but approaching. We could both only be so lucky to have such a good doctor who delivers an honest reflection of the situation but with a conscience.

Maybe the losses that cut the deepest are best delivered fact for fact, no silver tray or fancy embossed stationary. Just like an old fashioned telegram in black and white.

The vet told me I would know and that she would too. So I left feeling the padding, the emergency money your parents slipped into your back pocket.

In the meanwhile a bloody mary, an omelet and the boys lifted my spirits. We refreshed hopes for the future and had a few naughty chuckles.

I felt woozy and boozy upon returning home. It was too late to take a nap and too early to cash it in.

So the Speckled Biter and I ambled around the block grateful for the advance of spring and the longer daylight. Me happy today is a better one for him and thankful for the hung-over laughter that only old friends can deliver.

And we each knew we’d made the most of a beautiful spring afternoon while not doing anything much at all.

Sidewalks of NYC

I have never been a big fan of NYC. I always thought it was too loud, too busy and too frightening. Yet it existed as an odd presence in my life – a place I would go but never really felt connected.

I know the places I could dwell and really live. I could be in Venice every day or far-a-field in a small farm town in Rhode Island and truly live there. Santa Fe touched my soul with its profoundly blue sunrises and encompassing light enough to make me know I could hang my hat there for a while.

New York City hasn’t done it. LA- fab but not my bag baby. I can visit but am not there to stay.

Yet this past weekend I had a marvelous time.

I was with Best Boston Friend and really we travel so well together. We arrived separately but both went to the corner bodega – or whatever they are called and bought the same things for each other: diet coke and vitamin water. How funny.

He doesn’t care that I smoke cigarettes in the non-smoking room, thinks naps are perfectly acceptable, leaves when I pull the pillow over my head and goes off somewhere to do something else.

This is only relevant in the case of a perfect traveling companion, but we must consider the destination…

I take the train from Boston because I love it. It is relaxing and calm, I can nap and it starts where I do so am assured a seat. It is rhythmic and one can read or write or text or sleep. It is almost four hours of unadulterated bliss.

However Penn Station makes me hate NYC. It is loud and dirty and seems unkind. It is an unfitting landing for such a pleasant journey. Therefore I have developed the plan of taking the train down and the plane back to Boston. Thus far it has proved successful…

Travel plans aside, it was a magnificent weekend. The weather held off and Friday a friend had a regally wonderful birthday party at a private club. She is fantastic and her friends varied and hail from all over the world. I sat with a Broadway producer on my right and a bi-lingual architect on my left. There really isn’t anything else a girl can ask for…charming dinner companions.

The night was cold but not impossibly so. Walking the few blocks back to the hotel with old friends I was delighted to chat in the quiet of the shop lights. The sidewalks always seem to sparkle in New York. I am not sure why, but I always notice the small filaments of concrete winking in their grandeur.

Uncharacteristically early for dinner the next night we strolled along window shopping and I wondered why I didn’t love New York, why I was so averse to being in this magical place. It seems one of the few destinations on earth where an unmarried thirties girl like me seems acceptable– freedom as opposed to the encumbrance of a small and conservative city.

On Sunday we went to see the MOMA where a friend of mine has an exhibition on display. There were all kinds of people: cool people and not-so-cool, families, tourists, artsy, geeks. A little bit of everyone.

And I think that amalgamation, that acceptance of anyone makes you focus much more on De Koenig or Rothko or seeing Andrew Wyeth’s masterpiece in a far more concentrated way than a small sheltered place where everyone wonders who everyone else is and why they are there while noting what bag they are carrying and wondering where their kids go to school.

Suddenly it seemed so obvious to me – NYC may never be my home, but it most certainly can be my friend and perhaps one to visit more often.

Three-Legged Races

The hour is off and I don’t know, but things seem generally out of kilter.

Speckled Biter is getting run down.

He can hop and manages on his three remaining limbs as best he can but we all know what lies ahead. I watch his little spotted face limping down the stairs, amazed at his youthfulness and wonder what happens when your appendages give out but your mind lives on.

Post-grandmother death has left my mind all over the place – good friends, bad friends, where are my old ones? Ironically most have shown up. The ones that matter. I got notes from the strangest folks.

The rest I know send their sentiments. And that is all I need.

In the ridiculousness of day to day we think we know what matters, but it isn’t that at all.

It is in the limping of things, the sadness of things and the three legged races where we really find ourselves.

Tin Can Syndrome

I have a friend in the neighborhood who I stop in to see from time to time.

One night after work he asked me how I was and I told him I had the Tin Can Syndrome.

He asked me what that was and I said, “Dented. You know when they kick you up the street and back down again?”

So some days are better than others.

My clients are off the hook and work is better than ever as I get it back on track. But some decisions — even if they are better long term are sad in the making.

And sometimes life just leaves you feeling a little beat up.

Funeral Blues

My grandmother passed away last Sunday.

It has been a fatiguing week with funerals, wakes and flowers not necessarily in that order.

Today after it was all over I climbed into my car, headed back to Boston and dissolved into tears. I know her life was good and full, but there is loneliness in it. Your heart seems to be missing a piece; something that may or may not grow back and fill in, but nonetheless suffers.

At the lunch this afternoon I felt the exhaustion of the dead. I could barely stand and hadn’t had time to mourn. One has to straighten up and fly right, to make sure everything goes off in the finest tribute possible.

But in the aftermath I felt like a crumpled heap. I felt an empty sadness and a broad space I had not anticipated.

My grandmother had seven siblings. I asked three of them today if they’d ever seen her cry. They all said no. She had a good life: a great marriage, two children. But I guess the bargain in it is that when people leave there is something missing you’ll never get back.

I cried for her because I loved her. And I will miss her. Surely something else will fill the gap; it will just be something new. But it doesn’t stop your heart from hurting along the way.

I attach my eulogy from today’s service:

“Because our eyes need to be washed by our tears once in a while, so that we can see life with a clearer view again.” Alan Tan

Who is a person and how do you define a life, their life?

Today we are here to celebrate the life of Bernice and she was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, a sister and a friend.

Known affectionately to her husband of 67 years as Bernatka, Bernice was a devoted wife. She and Otto bonded together through good times and bad, through rich times and lean times, through happy times and sad times. But they loved one another, we are all sure of that.

Otto often relayed the story that while serving during WWII in Trieste handling Italian prisoners of war he came to discover that one of them was a portrait painter. He traded a carton of cigarettes – big currency in war time – to this man to do a pastel portrait of his wife from a small, dog-eared photograph he carried in his breast pocket.

Soon thereafter Otto was shipped home and the portrait wasn’t finished. Certain he’d been swindled out of a carton of cigarettes he headed back to his young family in the States.

Several weeks later a battered tube arrived in the mail. Rolled up inside was the completed pastel portrait. The Italian artist kept his word and sent Otto the promised picture of his lovely young wife.

So even to her husband far away at war those many years ago, Bernice was the most important person in his life.

Bernice was the mother of two children, Allen and Janice and through them we will continue to be reminded of her.

Years ago Jan’s daughter Sandy had just returned home a tad intimidated with newborn twins. Jan had been helping Sandy and her husband Michael to adjust to their new life and had just returned to her own home – about a 30 minute drive away from Sandy’s family when the phone rang.

Sandy’s husband told Jan she’s better turn around and come back. Jan dutifully set off again and found mayhem with a startled husband, two newborn children and her understandably exhausted daughter.

Quickly analyzing the situation Jan suggested a walk around the block to cool off and figure some things out.

With a reassuring smile and a pat Jan looked at her overwhelmed daughter and said, “Well that’s fine Sandy. Which one of the twins do you want to give back?”

There is a lot of Bernice in that – her mischievous humor and a smile to overcome a momentarily discouraging situation. That was her alright, practically minded and matter of fact, making no excuses along the way.

Allen too has a wonderful sense of humor. I think we can all agree that he didn’t inherit that from his father. So we can attribute this to Bernice as well.

A close friend asked Allen how he would most remember his mother and he answered “As someone who worked the third shift in a factory so I could go to Brown University.” That too was Bernice, making difficult choices so her children whom she fiercely loved would have more opportunities than she did; sacrificing of self on behalf of those she loved.

In many ways being a grandmother is a lot more fun than being a mother. Bernice was a great one.

There were swimming trips to the ponds where she wore her babushkas which all the kids thought looked so silly. There were Christmas tree outings and warm dinners, trips to the hairdresser and the one toy you’d specifically requested on birthdays. There were big picnics when all sorts of people would turn up for a sunny afternoon and park all along the fields. There were days to cook gnocchi and freshly baked poppy seed bread. There were funny pages to read together on Sunday’s and talks on the porch to simply watch the leaves drift from the trees.

They could polka so fast, Otto and Bernice that as a child one would just stop and stare to watch them twirling across the dance floor. Around and around and around again.

But they were fun times, warm times and times that make you think of home. Times that carry you back to days when things all seemed to make sense and Gramma’s house smelled of warm sweet bread and vaguely but comfortably of long forgotten White Owl cigars. And that was Bernice’s role as a grandmother: one that provided comfort, laughter, a puzzle, a funny or two and a warm cup of tea.

Bernice was also a sister. You couldn’t call Dresser Hill Road between 7:30 and 8 PM because Loretta and Bernice were on the telephone; every day winter, spring, summer and fall. Loretta once said, “She isn’t just my sister, she’s my best friend.”

When Otto and Bernice first met brother Joey was along on every date because she was babysitting him. Bernice once said that she had to marry him because he understood that it was a package deal; despite the fact that her father referred to Otto as “The Dutchman.”

And Bernice was also a friend. She loved people and was in turn loved by them. She was a social creature at heart whether with the Ladies Benevolent Society, her many cousins or friends.

So this is what makes a life. And this is what made Bernice’s life: her children, her grandchildren, her great grandchildren, her siblings and her friends. Some of these stories are not about Bernice, but they are all about the people she loved, the people who comprised her life. And therefore they are about her.

Otto and Bernice never said goodbye, they would always say “So long.” It was once explained that “Goodbye” is too permanent and that “So long” means we’ll meet again and see each other sometime soon.

So to Bernice who we loved and will simply miss we say “So long.”

And I close with a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson who eloquently describes a life:

“To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children…to leave the world a better place…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”

I Don”t Know Why I Love You, I Just Do

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What a bizarre night. I am not even sure what happened.

We have not written a lot. My world has been turned upside down and inside out in small ways excusing my malaise.

The first situation to tackle is that of my dying grandmother. The second a highly charged family situation I cannot discuss but one fraught with anxiety and fears-come-true. It is not a nightmare; call it my day-mere to which I am resigned to take a back seat and see how it unfolds.

Speckled Biter himself is failing so as he limps up the stairs I am hard-pressed not to reflect upon the thus banished blues nipping at my heels.

I can only thank my friends, the stalwart trustworthy turn-out folks who just call me and leave a message or say hello. How much they mean in this strange time cannot be ignored.

As far as my grandmother is concerned, this is an odd process. For those left behind one initially of fright when you are sure someone has passed on and then the second glimpse when you see what lies around the corner indicates what lies ahead. Your concern shifts, it isn’t where you are going that matters; it is when you will get there. And what lies in between where you are and where your loved ones will be.

She fell and broke her hip and I was fortunate enough to go to CA for a brief weekend with friends for some fun. This is decidedly unfun, but part of life.

She survived the initial and has one bad day and then a good one. My aunt was scheduled to come back east in April and after my visit last week I called her and told her what I saw. I knew I could not go on a ski trip planned for out west.

A few days later I got a call my aunt was coming east. I felt my grandmother was going to pass, but reminded unsure as her condition fluctuated. When my aunt announced she was coming this way I knew I had made the right decision to stay.

So today after a meeting with my aunt, uncle and father we all gathered to see my grandmother’s condition. They wheeled her in and her head was bent and forlorn, but then would suddenly burst forth with the spirit so you know she is trying to hang on.

All she wants is liquids which she can’t have. And her favorite soda is MOXIE which she got my dad to smuggle in under wraps. We let her have some figuring what did it matter at this stage of the game?

In the nursing home lives another lady who sings out day and night with one song. She does the chorus, the accompaniment and the background all alone. She pushes her wheel chair and you hear her lonely hallows hanging on the walls clinging to this empty space where people die. And she sings: “I don’t know why I love you like I do; I don’t know why I just do. I don’t know why I love you like I do; I don’t know why you just do.”

You listen over and over and can’t be sure it is always the same song, the words, the melody, but you know it is. My mind sinks back to where they must go – does it settle upon the most favored moments of your life?

I hear this song I have never heard repeated over and over and it is like a record on a player tracing the groove in the vinyl. I see their lives encased in these dying people and want to know what they remember as their moments.

For this sad lady I can see the black, white and gray and find the way back to a sweetheart dance in a simple hall with this song playing behind her. I hear the notes pour forth from the almost ignored speakers and their co-conspiritual laugh as he pulled her close, closer than he should of and whispered in her ear…”I just do…”

I looked up the song and there are fewer words than that – it is unremarkable in some ways. But it leaves me wanting to know and to understand what pushes an 80+ year old lady around a home constantly singing a tune.

But as she lets me hear it, this mundane song for a man who may or may not have been remarkable, clutched tight, smiles committed, hoped pinned…who made a moment in her life she can’t forget or remember, but must repeat.

And as I watch my grandmother’s life filter through the hourglass with the experts telling me what to expect when, I wonder what are mine? What will I sing? Whose embrace will I remember? And I only hope they will be so clear.