August 2009: the novella
August 2009
Two weeks come and go. Two weeks, if you think about it, are always coming and going.
My mother has the time of her life. I get the emails. I get the post cards and the picture messages. The scenes behind her- epic, picturesque and gorgeous. Very American in Europe.
"This is beyond words," she writes. That's all she can write, if it's "beyond words." I see a picture of her and Crimshaw has his arm, snugly, against her waist. I don't say anything about this, yet. When is it too soon to start again? Who can answer that? Grief is a continuing process. You never get over someone, completely. The hole doesn't close and it's not supposed to.
Life with Sarah goes very well. Amazingly well. I stand back and thank my good luck, my lucky stars. I look at her and think "are you real?"
"Well, are you?" She laughs, laying down on the bed we often share together.
"No, I'm fake. Cut me, I don't bleed real blood!" I make a threatening motion as to wound her. I couldn't dream of doing such an act, in this lifetime or the next. Instead, I dive my head into her shoulder and chuckle into her.
"Real blood?" I ask. I feel her fingers running up my spine.
"Real blood. Not catsup." I smile into her then.
I keep telling myself: I am so lucky. For Sarah, for once. I'm afraid of waking up.
My mother is a little obnoxious upon returning. I'm subjected to constant anecdote after constant anecdote. I think I hear all of them seven or eight times in total.
"Did I tell you what Crimshaw said to those Frenchmen? Oh he's a riot!" she tells me when we're sitting outside, on her backporch. It used to be our backporch. My parents, they used to have garden parties.
"Yes you did. You going to tell me again?"
"If you want to hear it again!" sing-song she teases me. Her eyebrow is raised.
For the most part, I just hear the colorful funny anomalous things that have happened. I don't mind those- I expect to hear them. The Bill Bryson rehashes. The moment when people mistook her and Crimshaw for authentic Austrians.
"An authentic Austrian?" I ask, bemused. My mother is a cultured and distinguished woman, but I don't see her as being mistaken for European. "What did you do, start speaking German and quoting Mozart?"
"Well the gig was up once we started speaking with our BROAD American accents. Crimshaw more than me. Then, they said we made a great couple. What do you think about that?"
"Well..." I pause to contemplate this. Because I think I know (and I do know) what is coming next.
My mother tilts her head at me. She's been gardening all day. She smells like soil. It's a raw smell, a fitting one for a mother if you believe in allegories (as any good son does).
"Is it too soon?" she asks me and she's echoing every whisper in my mind.
This selfish part of me wants to say "yes it is" and not just say it, scream it. She and Crimshaw speak a lot these days. She and Crimshaw hang out quite a lot these days.
Sometimes you can spend a lot time with a person and be repelled by the very thought of them for months afterwards. God knows this is the case for me most of the time. I lived with a guy in college and although he had done nothing that awful to me, there were all these annoying traits and gross habits I couldn't help but fault him for. So once I moved out, I never spoke to him again, because he just disgusted me for stupid, stupid reasons.
Or else you find yourself so much closer. Which was the case in this scenario. Crimshaw and my mother, to borrow a teenage girl's catchphrase, were BFF's.
"I can't answer that." My mother grimaces.
"I don't even know."
Two weeks come and go. Two weeks, if you think about it, are always coming and going.
My mother has the time of her life. I get the emails. I get the post cards and the picture messages. The scenes behind her- epic, picturesque and gorgeous. Very American in Europe.
"This is beyond words," she writes. That's all she can write, if it's "beyond words." I see a picture of her and Crimshaw has his arm, snugly, against her waist. I don't say anything about this, yet. When is it too soon to start again? Who can answer that? Grief is a continuing process. You never get over someone, completely. The hole doesn't close and it's not supposed to.
Life with Sarah goes very well. Amazingly well. I stand back and thank my good luck, my lucky stars. I look at her and think "are you real?"
"Well, are you?" She laughs, laying down on the bed we often share together.
"No, I'm fake. Cut me, I don't bleed real blood!" I make a threatening motion as to wound her. I couldn't dream of doing such an act, in this lifetime or the next. Instead, I dive my head into her shoulder and chuckle into her.
"Real blood?" I ask. I feel her fingers running up my spine.
"Real blood. Not catsup." I smile into her then.
I keep telling myself: I am so lucky. For Sarah, for once. I'm afraid of waking up.
My mother is a little obnoxious upon returning. I'm subjected to constant anecdote after constant anecdote. I think I hear all of them seven or eight times in total.
"Did I tell you what Crimshaw said to those Frenchmen? Oh he's a riot!" she tells me when we're sitting outside, on her backporch. It used to be our backporch. My parents, they used to have garden parties.
"Yes you did. You going to tell me again?"
"If you want to hear it again!" sing-song she teases me. Her eyebrow is raised.
For the most part, I just hear the colorful funny anomalous things that have happened. I don't mind those- I expect to hear them. The Bill Bryson rehashes. The moment when people mistook her and Crimshaw for authentic Austrians.
"An authentic Austrian?" I ask, bemused. My mother is a cultured and distinguished woman, but I don't see her as being mistaken for European. "What did you do, start speaking German and quoting Mozart?"
"Well the gig was up once we started speaking with our BROAD American accents. Crimshaw more than me. Then, they said we made a great couple. What do you think about that?"
"Well..." I pause to contemplate this. Because I think I know (and I do know) what is coming next.
My mother tilts her head at me. She's been gardening all day. She smells like soil. It's a raw smell, a fitting one for a mother if you believe in allegories (as any good son does).
"Is it too soon?" she asks me and she's echoing every whisper in my mind.
This selfish part of me wants to say "yes it is" and not just say it, scream it. She and Crimshaw speak a lot these days. She and Crimshaw hang out quite a lot these days.
Sometimes you can spend a lot time with a person and be repelled by the very thought of them for months afterwards. God knows this is the case for me most of the time. I lived with a guy in college and although he had done nothing that awful to me, there were all these annoying traits and gross habits I couldn't help but fault him for. So once I moved out, I never spoke to him again, because he just disgusted me for stupid, stupid reasons.
Or else you find yourself so much closer. Which was the case in this scenario. Crimshaw and my mother, to borrow a teenage girl's catchphrase, were BFF's.
"I can't answer that." My mother grimaces.
"I don't even know."
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