too present to forget
a letter, three years after.
Too present for forgetting. Too here to play, “remember when?”
When I imagined what it would be like to lose you, as much as anyone can really prepare for the missing of another, what I pictured was somewhat more of an understanding than it has been. An acknowledgement or a recognition. “I haven’t heard from him because he’s gone. There’s a sadness, a grieving, but there is a clear distance in my memory like a soreness in the bones, knowing the origin was a hard run.”
Instead, my thoughts rise like the end of a question. There’s seeking. There’s reaching. Be as “Death Positive” as you can, and you still find yourself wondering, “where has my loved one been?” Three years, and I catch myself speaking in the present tense. Three years, and Monday comes, bringing a guilt with it in how I must have missed our phone call.
I did think I’d grasp it at some point, that you’re not here. Maybe I can’t process it because that’s not the whole truth.
I imagined, with all your work in the psychic, in the spiritual, your cross-department interest in humanity, with our long talks of what to look for, or with my famous love of ghosts, I’d see signs. Cosmic winks. Dreams. Paper airplanes sent from your hiding spot. Neither my uncle nor I can fill a handful of experiences quite yet. Maybe it’s not one plain sign to be spotted, or that perfect, anticipated collection of words written down, but the feeling of our long conversation, continuing, wandering and meandering like the Adirondack highways we love.
Despite the absence, despite my wanting to ask if you still visit, you’re still so very much in my ears. Your hardy laugh, your crackled voice fit for a radio show, your retired choir’s tenor when we’d sing, “Have I told you lately that I love you,” in closing another long call. It’s not even that I have your texts and voicemails saved; even your curly-cue smiley inked where you held my arm on our walks together. It’s that I sense there’s a conversation happening under the hum of whatever might have the front burner of my attention. How my neurons never have to wait to fire any signal for tears. If I’m quiet, I can hear it. You’re leaving space for me to answer.
I know my uncle feels it, too. He tells me on our Monday night chats, in picking up a similar tradition, that he talks to you aloud some evenings when he closes up the house for the night. Shutting the windows, “a long day, wasn’t it?” Brushing his teeth, “I’m working far more than I’d like to these days, but I don’t know what I should do about it.” Clicking off the electric candle kept on the kitchen table for you, “Goodnight, Papa, sweet dreams. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” We repeat your favorite phrases to each other: “I love you every day and twice on Sundays.” “What you need needs you, too.” “If I were any prouder of you, the buttons would pop off my shirt.” Never a goodbye, never a farewell, but always a ta-ta.
Our family tree has always been a splintered one. Long limbs that seem to stretch on for years, traveling as if suspended in the air alone, unrooted, before connecting back to their base. Every time I get nostalgic, every time I want to show my partner or my friends something of my history, I remember what I wrote years ago, “If I can point to anything when I talk about where I come from, let it be you.”
A Poet. A Spiritualist. A Leader. A Historian. A Friend. Your heart, the size of the Pacific. The unexpected, quick-witted, dirty jokes. Every giddy update while working on what would be your last book. “We’re talking to a very lovely translator, wouldn’t you believe it? We’re trying to include as many languages as we can.” Even the fact that when I look up your name, there’s your author photo beaming back at me.
You told me a story of your days as a farmhand, how you helped that cow (what was the name.. Nelly? Darla?) through a difficult birth. The moment she knew her baby was safe, she went to lick its face clean, then invited you to come see it. A trust earned without words, but gentleness. Papa, the way you tell stories, I always watch you from behind the edge of tears. You can tell when a talent is something a person was put here to do. I couldn’t tell which talent was stronger in you: storytelling or love. The days I spent visiting you in California, I’d wake to find coffee still hot on the counter for me, though you kept away from caffeine yourself. Dry cereal poured. Spoon set beside it. That stunning quality of yours: an ability to let people know they’re thought of. I hope you feel as thought of as you made me feel.
On your way out of this life, you sang Yesterday by The Beatles. You chatted with your grandfather, as if he sat in the armchair beside your bed. You laughed. We spoke on the phone as well as we could, and in those long pauses, those sore noises as sickness scraped your voice to a croak, I could hear you singing back with me. Have I told you lately that I love you?
Sweet dreams. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Ta-ta.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
tip jar (venmo): schuylerpeck
If you’re interested in supporting my writing or reading more:
book link 1: The Ghosts’ Share of Rent
book link 2: You Look Like Hell
book link 3: To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart
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