Viola Speaks

Breathing and Writing

I walk back up the stairs, morning coffee in hand, turn on my desk and bedside lamps, throwing barely enough light on the dark red walls.  The sun’s not up, so the blinds stay drawn for now. 

Open a dresser drawer, pull out matches and incense—Japanese today, I think.  Walk across the room, light a match—lock eyes with the photo on my altar, quickly look away, glancing at the personal objects and talismans I’ve placed there, light the votive resting on my grandmother’s lace handkerchief, then the incense.  Hesitate a moment, then turn on his old lava lamp. 

It’s been a long week—Monday hospital volunteering and NYU, Tuesday the third anniversary of his death, Wednesday emotional recovery and hot yoga, inter-spliced with half-hearted class prep, Thursday snow, finalizing my lesson plan and being ‘on’ for thirty-six college freshmen.

Meant to write last night, but instead grabbed Thai and a glass of wine in the city, then spent a mindless hour online before turning in.

But up uncharacteristically early this morning, much thanks to my jetlagged housemate getting the coffee going at 5:30, tempting me out from under the covers.

Climb back in bed, placing the backrest against the wall and settle in, pulling my great-grandmother’s quilt over my lap.  Look closely for a moment at the individual two-by-two squares of cloth—plenty of gingham, stripes and florals mixed in with some funky choices.  Wish I’d known this woman, my beloved grandfather’s mother, a working nurse in central Texas with eight children (seven surviving) whose husband left her for a cousin. 

Reach down, get my lap desk wedged between the bed and cluttered dresser on my left, home to a stack of partly-read books, partially-written journals, an alarm clock, pens, highlighters, tissues, the surprisingly long-lived rose Cub brought last week, Buddhist prayer flags and of course, a picture of Evan, this one at the Long Beach Aquarium two months before he died.

Pictures and mementoes everywhere, really—his Harry Potter broom near the radiator, Thomas the Tank Engine trains and one of his well-worn Merrells—my ex has the other—on a bookshelf.  They only occasionally take my breath away anymore, but only because I’ve learned not to let them. 

I still live in my housemate’s house, so this part-shrine, part-sanctuary of a bedroom is all that’s truly mine. 

I take a long sip of coffee. The clock ticks, the old windows creak.

(Did I grieve enough this week?  Get the balance, between living and remembering, right?  Do I ever?)

The sun’s coming up, I stand up and open the blinds.

Pick up, open my Mac…and begin to write.

 

Glimpse of A Future That Isn't

I’m not much of a beach person.  Unless you’re talking Bali, they’re a bit too unadventurous and expected for my taste. Besides, I’m vain about my skin and wiping sticky chemicals all over my body every hour or two, while hiding out under an umbrella all day rather takes the fun out of it.

 But my ex-husband is, and more importantly, so was our son.  July 2005 we split the difference and went to Belize—beach action AND Mayan ruins, cave tubing and multi-culti locals.  To seal the deal, three frequent flier tickets were miraculously available on Continental.

After staying inland at an eco-resort, hiking, canoeing and tubing for a few days, we headed to the beach, Placentia specifically.  Overall my ex and I were underwhelmed—romping over deserted beaches in Thailand and Malaysia does that to you. 

But Evan loved every minute of it, including the day we took the scuba boat out to a local cay to go snorkeling.

My ex and I took turns going out with the group into the depressingly murky water, while the other went exploring the cay with our son. 

We were pretty far out on the ocean—it’d been a 45-minute boat ride and you couldn’t see the mainland.  I saw why cays were ‘cays’ and not ‘islands’ though—you could walk the width in about 10 seconds and the length in maybe 6 or 7 minutes. 

This particular cay had a low point, a channel cutting right across the middle.  Neither beach nor ocean exactly, more like shallow river, Evan and I headed over almost at once.  It wasn’t far but was trickier walking than expected, as we picked our way over the driftwood, logs and litter washed up from the mainland.  Most of the group didn’t make the effort.

Picturesque, yes—as long as you didn’t look too closely at the soda bottles and cigarette packs washed ashore.

We reached the channel, walked in and I plopped down in the water.  Sitting on the sand and rocks, the slow, warm current barely skimmed my hips, so I wasn’t worried about Evan walking around and exploring. 

I’d taken his glasses off earlier and put on his prescription swim goggles.  He also had his water shoes on, so the rocks weren’t an issue.  I took out the overpriced, waterproof camera I bought at the hotel and started snapping pictures, watching the wind whip through his hair and palm trees sway behind him.

We didn’t have much time alone anymore since I’d gone back to work two years before.  Most time together was also with my husband, family or friends, so it was a rare treat to have my gorgeous boy all to myself.

Inappropriately enough, when seeing this picture later I always thought to myself, with a mother’s pride, ‘damn he’s sexy.’ 

Only five years old, but I swear I saw the man in him, the adult I was sure he would one day become, that day in Belize. 

 

Cooking With Dan, Saturday After New Year’s

It's been awhile.  (But not gonna write about "why I haven't been writing"--how tedious).

Taking a writing class the next couple months, deciding to get serious, see where it goes. First assignment: describe a physical activity I love such that the reader can imagine it.  Hope I succeeded.

And yes...as my girlfriends already know, a supporting player has rejoined the stage.

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I glance at the clock…almost 2:30 already.  I should get started.

I walk to the fridge, open the door, kneel down to the vegetable bin, start shuffling through my palette…yep, need the mushrooms, pull those out…collard greens too and the meyer lemon of course—should I make that first? Yeah, I’ll make it first—can re-heat later.  Close the bin, look through the rest of the shelves…tofu, check, fresh dill, check, sour cream and crème fraiche—they should stay cold for now.

Stand up, set everything on the counter, walk over to the onion bin, sort through, pulling out two shallots and a head of garlic.

Wait, I need some company.  Music? Or a podcast?  Definitely too early for a glass of wine, my other cooking companion.  Decide Dan Savage is in order—get my laptop, arrange it on a spare bit of counter.  Discovered him five or six months ago and have methodically cycled through his back library ever since, in the process developing a bit of a fag hag crush on this highly entertaining sex advice columnist.  He’s wonderfully educational when you’re going through your 20s in your 40s.

Apples next…hate peeling apples, but they are a key part of apple crisp.  Better butter the baking dish too.  Cut the meyer lemon in half—it’s a somewhat wrinkled specimen still leftover from the bag I brought home from Cali after Thanksgiving—squeeze some juice on the peeled, cored, sliced apples, then peel a couple more.  Ick—this one’s got a bad spot, into the compost it goes.  Throw in some cinnamon, a bit of sugar, oh some cornstarch too, maybe some ginger and definitely nutmeg (freshly grated, of course).  Start cutting the rest of the lemon into teensy pieces (ouch! it stings!), throw into the apple mixture and pour the whole mess into the buttered dish.  Then make the topping—can’t go too far wrong with brown sugar, chopped pecans, cinnamon, a bit of flour and lots o’ butter. I slowly massage the butter in with my fingers, until it’s all smushed together—kinda messy, but kinda fun too.

And into the oven it goes.

Yum.

I take a break, listen to Dan for a minute—yeah, this girl definitely needs to dump the guy…damn, almost getting to where I can predict most of his answers.  Wish he’d been around when I was young, might have saved me a lot of grief.  (Who am I kidding?  Thought I knew everything.) 

Look at the time—nearly 4.  Picking Cub up around 5:40…unless he misses the train.  Always a possibility. 

Still haven’t wrapped my head around being with him again. It feels good and right…but only because I’m ignoring my rational self, trusting my intuition.  Still getting comfortable with ‘not knowing’ and living in the present tense.

My old approach didn’t turn out so well though, so I’m game.  Scary sometimes though. 

Back to dinner.  I rather think he’ll love this tofu mushroom stroganoff (what is it with me and vegetarians?)  Couldn’t find any one recipe I was happy with, so triangulating between three. Another part of the new me—I used to be a total slave to the recipe.

My cooking’s never been better.

Drain the tofu, wrap in paper towels, set aside.  Then start dealing with the mushrooms…shitakes first (save the stems, maybe I’ll make a broth), then the crimini. Wash, slice, wash and slice…it’s a ton but they cook down.

What’s going on in his head?  He wouldn’t schlep out to Jersey if he wasn’t into me (no Manhattanite ever does)—but is he going to have another intimacy freak out and end it? 

It’s loss—not intimacy—that scares me.

Of course either of us can end it any time, that’s the deal with non-committed relationships.  Hell, it’s always the deal, even with marriage—I didn’t let 17 years hold me back from leaving. 

Not going to have much of a life if I never risk another loss. 

The timer goes off.  Pull the crisp out, take in a big inhale of apple-cinnamony goodness.

So what changed in his head from last summer to now?  And why doesn’t he see me as long-term? My age?  (I turn 43 in a week—gulp.)  Understandable—despite all the culture’s cougar talk, the older woman/younger guy thing still brings up issues.  I’ll ask.

Dan wraps up another podcast while I start peeling garlic and chopping shallots…time for that glass of wine?  Only hesitate a second before pouring.