The rain has come with its beautiful fragrance of oceans and air, everywhere present wiith the first big drops that fall on my summer shirt as I pick raspberries. It makes me feel the writing in me, pushing, stirring. Where will it come out? Through an ear? Through an eye? Yes. The eye that caught a glimpse of a particular shade of deep blue of a car just passing. Much better really to use the word apercevoir, which has the sense of perceiving something quickly, something suddenly touching your consciousness through some impression on your senses, something so fleeting that you nearly don’t perceive it. J’ai aperçu le couleur bleu foncé and now it has left an impression like a taste I can see and recall as if it exists somewhere inside the space of my chest. I can breathe it in and then send it out through my throat and my nostrils into the atmosphere of the air of the village now glittering with rain.
I play with the color for awhile, sending it through the space left under my neighbor’s electric shutters across the road, in through the chimney of the man with the big Doberman dogs that bark, sending it like a trailing cloud behind an anonymous car passing by, making that light squelching sound through the puddles. Then I pull it back inside to feel its texture inside my throat and then let it dissolve into its essence and become part of my blood and marrow.
I think about the English-speaking women I spoke with there at the café under the platane trees near the river. I taste the flavor of them, the spice of one enough to wake me, the other flavors, delicate, herbal, wafting off to be dissolved by the wet drops and wash eventually into the river. The one with a bit of spice tastes slightly of sorrow and fatigue, with a lingring pungent undercurrent of a clear, sharp look at the life in which she swims.
And the rain keeps coming. Who would have believed it, even as late as lunchtime that the clouds (that have cheated us all so often of late) would actually let down persistent wetness for an hour or more on end. The gaping cracks in the dry earth must feel the drops beginning to round their edges, loosening the particles of dirt that will now begin their slide downwards into the gaps, pulled by the gravity that made the wetness fall from up above to down below.
All this is happening while the wiry, robust young man who drove his other-kind-of blue car madly into the parking area across from the café around noon, slammed on his brakes, burst open his door and walked with long, strong strides across the road to the terrace of the café, is probably sleeping off the alcohol that had pumped up the blood in his head enough to come storming after a woman who he probably had thought betrayed him, ready to put his strong hands around her throat. And the older man, perhaps his father, who had flung open the passenger door when they stopped, striding behind the younger man to back him up, is probably at the Saturday local afternoon pétanque match , sitting on the sidelines, steaming to the other old men on the bench, telling them the story of how he and his son gave that woman what was coming to her, glossing over the humiliation of being moved on by the equally robust Spanish café owner.
And I imagine that the rain, gently wetting their t-shirts and gradually diluting their “pressions”, eventually brings the old man to silence as the sound of the pétanque balls, clicking against each other, becomes the background to his thoughts of supper and an evening spent in front of the glowing tele.
Earth is waiting patiently To take back All the minerals all the fibres of this body That were borrowed On a contract limited in time. An arrangement with the force of gravity To yield up just enough to let it rhyme And move about within its mighty field leaving little trace While earth continues quietly to rest Within its calm embrace.
And meanwhile, air has silently agreed To pass through this funny thing, the nose and be drawn into these stretching lungs Which then pass on that precious gas To mingle once again with earth and thus allow The magic dance of life to continue for a space.
And water runs as is its will With grace where it’s allowed. And fire fuels the dance to keep the whole dang thing in spinning motion While what I may call I continues in its race To understand its place Before earth and water Air and fire Let go of such a notion.
Damn! What about those birds that fly Through the tops of the palm tree there in front of the neighbor’s house Just at that moment when The descending afternoon sun Shines for a moment through The layer of grey clouds over the mountains. How can they glint so golden Flashing here and there Through the dark pointed fronds?
It shouldn’t be possible In this ordinary world But there it is. I saw it.
Just like that moment When my mother, the teetotaler desceded from the Jewish schetles, then having come to the great age Of ninety six, Sat before me in the restaurant By the salt water of the Pacific On the opposite side of the huge country From all that she had known for that entire lifetime On the far side of everything. The boats of the marina, Bobbing in the pink water, And my mother’s cheek bathed in the warm orange light Of the setting sun.
She had just asked, “Can I have a sip of that lovely white wine you’re drinking? It’s glowing with the light.”
And of course I said yes and she took the glass offered across the table And sipped, savoring fully a moment, her focus turned within, her head tipped slightly back And her dark, crinkled eyes then suddenly bright with joy.
Subsiding back into her chair, With a smile that transformed the world her hand still balancing the glass that had turned into a goblet of the most exquisite chartreuse glow Saying,
“Ah! What an incredible burst of flavor Just there in the cupping of my tongue! Like the scent of lemon blossoms and the taste of warm sun! I never knew wine could be like that. I will savor it forever”
Then taking in a long breath of joy She looked at me with The love beyond even that of a mother for her child and said, “There are still wonders To discover every day, something new and extraordinary, unexpected Even after all these years of living on this earth there are things I’ve never seen! There’s reason to live still another moment to taste it here together.”
And perhaps we will continue for one more breath Or two Just to see another.
There is a rain that falls through air and lights it with the glow of water.
It comes everywhere at some time, Even in the deserts Where once there were oceans And in the oceans where once were green forests.
There is no time. We know this now. There is no separation of molecules one from another. There is only some chance that one of the smallest particles is present now In any given notch in the myriad of universes.
We know that when we look out From a window That it is not a window outside us Nor is the outside not the inside. We know this.
Feel it! Practice the feel of it With every breath you remember Until the music of it Vibrates everywhere All at once.
Part Two
The eggman in the market who observes his hens Says they’re now running inside And outside of their chicken house With all the changing weather,
With the warm, then the cold Then the wind, then the rain.
They do not like the rain On their feathers. The governments of the world, he says, are changing Like the chickens running in and out With all this variation In the weather.
“Governments are driven by the weather Like the hens” he says, In his accented French of the Occitane.
At the age of ninety-three, her now sparse hair had been dyed metallic-red by accident. Pearl was bent but not broken. Her memory was true only for the years of her childhood and youth in Brooklyn. Everything else came and went like fireflies floating through her mind. But my mother was happy.
She was teaching French to one of the nursing assistants at the Residence. She had the Ph.D. she had never completed and became part of her identity when introduced. “I’m Pearl. I have a PhD. Where did you study? ” The other residents were old, not like here, and had no real intellectual interests. But the staff loved her.
Her mind had slowed and took no more of the flights that had occupied it for so many years. She came to live in the present, without that constant worry of what might come to pass at any moment with the people in her circle of love. She laughed often, a heart-felt gusty laugh that sometimes brought tears to her eyes (and mine). We laughed together like high school friends.
She’d flown three thousand miles across the country with me three years before so I could have her near me. After it had become clear she could no longer live alone in her big house, it was sold and I moved her into the Assisted Living in her town, the place where she had planned to go to be with the people she’d know for over fifty years. But she was no longer capable of living as independently as her younger friends and quickly became isolated and depressed. There were emergency calls to me on the other coast when she became stranded in the Emergency Room or when she wouldn’t believe that she had already been given her medications. I felt powerless to help her.
So I found a place near me where professors and their spouses went when they became too old to manage. They were from another culture than Pearl’s, more nordic than ashkenazic, but I thought she might find like-minded intellectuals. When we walked in the front door of the residence after she’d stayed at our house for the night, she grabbed my arm and tried to forcibly turn me back, whispering loudly, “I can’t stay here! These people are all so old!”
But, they were nice to her there and I could go and visit her often since she was near the office where I went every weekday. I could go catch her when she left the residence on one of her walks “Across town to 42nd Street”. She’d forgotten entirely the middle sixty years of her life and oriented solely to Brooklyn and “The City” where she’d lived for the first thirty odd years of her long life.
Saturdays became “Pearl Day”. In the summer, when we had a market stall selling our vegetables, I’d help my partner set up and start the day. Then I’d hop in my car and drive over to the next town where she lived and we’d spend a few hours together. I took her on little excursions to see the mountains or walk by Puget Sound. She loved the novelty of the Pacific Northwest. “The water! The mountains! We don’t have mountains in Brooklyn!” We’d have a nice lunch in a restaurant or a picnic in good weather.
But it wasn’t enough for her. She needed more real company, more stimulation. I talked to her about hiring someone to take her on outings. She wouldn’t have it. It was too artificial and too expensive.
Then I had a brain storm. I found a lovely woman who had a business providing services to the elderly. She was charming and smart and funny. I told her about my mother and she was game to work it out. I told her about my little subterfuge.
The next day, I called my mother and told her that I’d found a lovely, recently retired woman who was a bit lonely and wanted to have someone to do things with. It even so happened that she wanted to learn French and was excited when she heard my mother was a former French teacher. My mother consented to meet with her and see if they got along.
They got along famously. Her name was Lyle. Even though I continued to pay her for her time as agreed, they became fast friends. They went to the local museums and events. They could be seen walking arm in arm repeating French phrases together, chatting up museum docents and random people they came across on their slow walks and giggling over the antics of children on the boardwalk by the water,
Her memory was increasingly misty. Much of the time, she thought I was her sister. It became more and more difficult for the staff to manage her medication since she couldn’t remember having been given it just a few minutes before. She insisted she had never traveled and became obsessed by making her first trip to Paris (where she had been two or three times before). She began calling travel agents in town, trying to book tickets. We talked about the difficulties of a long, long plane trip at her age. “But my mind is clear! I feel good. I feel young!” “Yes,” was my response, “but your body is ninety-three years old. It’s a bit fragile.” I had to go to all the travel agents and ask them, please, not to sell tickets to Pearl. They laughed and agreed. She continued to try.
To assuage her, I told her it might be possible for us to go together if she consented to hire a wheelchair once we were there. She categorically refused on grounds of humiliation. I insisted. She insisted.”Okay, I said. Let’s take a trial trip. We’ll go visit Victoria in British Columbia because I know it well. We’ll stay at a B&B I know and we’ll go to Butchart Gardens”. She consented. LIttle did I know what was in store.
I booked the ground floor room at the B&B where I’d stayed several times with my partner. It was in a lovely old house in a quiet part of town. The hostess had become a friend.
We drove up to Tsawwassen Ferry Landing in British Columbia and had a wonderful ferry trip to Victoria. She was entranced by the beauty of the islands we passed and by being on a ship on the water.
Once we arrived in Victoria, we had a half hour car trip to the B&B. She was tired and chafed at the seat belt, practically crying like a small child. When we arrived, she was charmed by the owner and we settled into the room. We went out to a nice restaurant and returned for an early bedtime. I was exhausted and after I’d gotten her settled for the night I lay down in my own bed and fell asleep immediately.
I was awoken soon after by the noise of my mother getting out of bed, thinking it was morning. I tucked her back in and told her she needed to sleep. A half an hour later, she was up again. Once again, back to bed.
I fell into a deep sleep only to be woken again by some strange sense and a silence from her bed. I called her name. No response. I checked the toilet. No. I went out into the hall. No. But then I saw a light from under the kitchen door and a sound of a dish being put down on the table. Since it was only two thirty in the morning, I knew it wasn’t Lorraine starting to prepare breakfast.
I ran to open the door and there was my mother, raiding the refrigerator. The kitchen was off limits to guests, the private kitchen of the household. Horrified, I told my mother, “I’m sorry. You can’t be here. This isn’t our kitchen. Lorraine would be very upset.” I put the things away carefully, making sure to wipe up any evidence and lead my mother back to bed.
Now, truly exhausted, I put her back to bed and told her sternly to stay there until I told her it was time to wake up. I didn’t dare to sleep soundly, so I heard her get up again twenty minutes later and, drowsy, by the time I’d gotten myself out of bed, she was already headed for the kitchen.
I caught up with her and guided her back to bed. “But I’m hungry,” she said. “It’s time to get up.” “No. it’s three thirty in the morning. We’ll wake the whole household. You have to stay in your bed.”
I tucked her back in and gave her one of the cookies I’d brought. FIve minutes later she was pulling back the covers to get up. Oh God, I thought, No! Like the desperate mother of a naughty three year old, I said,
“If you get up again, I’ll have to spank you.” “You won’t!”, she said. “Oh yes!” I said. “I will!”
Three minutes later, she was up. I pulled back the covers, strode across the room andI smacked her on the bottom.
“No! Stay in bed!” A bit tearful, she got back under the covers.
Shaken by my audacity, I went back to bed and slept fitfully, attentive to any sound. She rolled over and over, but didn’t get up again till 6:30. I helped her dress and took her to the front room to watch the news on the tv while I snoozed on the sofa.
We had a lovely breakfast when Lorraine got up. The other guests at the table were charmed by this woman past ninety who was knew how to engage them in conversation. It was a lovely fall day. Time for our excursion to Butchart Gardens.
I had been there twice before and knew the layout. It would be much too far for her to walk but they had handy wheelchairs. When we arrived at the parking lot I said “Wait here while I go get a wheelchair for you. It will be a lovely ride through the gardens but too far to walk.” “No wheelchair”, she said. “Okay. We’ll do something else today then”, I replied.
She finally consented. Under duress. We started out on our journey around the gardens where the constant explosions of color and pattern leave you in a state of all-consuming awe. We got to a part of the garden that was quieter and more subdued, a park with a path through. She suddenly said, “You shouldn’t be the one pushing me around. I should be pushing you. “ I laughed and said “Thank you. But I’m fine.” She insisted. She got out of the wheelchair, all fragile ninety pounds, five foot six of her compared to my five foot eleven. I got her to sit again for a few feet, but she started to drag her feet so I couldn’t push. “See. It’s too hard “ she said.
“Okay.” I said. “You can push me.” We changed places on the momentarily deserted path. She tried to push. “You’re dragging your feet!” she said. I lifted my feet so she could see. “Nope.” She tried again and it wouldn’t budge. Just as a father and his little girl came up the path, she started to cry. Oh no! I thought. That father must be thinking, “Right! Elder abuse!” like a good Canadian.
I leaped out of the chair, grabbing the handles so she wouldn’t fall over. I put my other arm around her and said “It’s okay. I understand.’
“I feel so guilty” she said, “that you have to push me. I should take care of you.” I reassured her that this was the way of nature, that the younger eventually have to take care of the older. “But you’re the younger one!” she said. She was still crying softly as I got her back in the chair.
We went to sit on a nearby bench in front of a fountain. I needed to do something to redeem the moment. Her head was hanging in shame.
I said, “You know, I think we can do something together. You feel guilty a lot. More and more. Let’s embrace the guilt! Let’s hug it! Let’s tell it it’s loved. Let’s practice Jewish Buddhism. We replace love with guilt! We’ll start a new religion together! “
I hugged myself. “Oh guilt! I love you! Be big for me! Grow strong!” She looked at me and started to laugh. “Do it!” I said. And she did.
We both hugged ourselves, kissing the air. “ Oh beautiful guilt! We love you” we chanted. We were both laughing. “More!” I said. We did, more and more, laughing harder and harder until we both had tears streaming down our faces.
We hugged. She got back into the wheelchair. “Where next?” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
Suddenly, some balance somewhere Shifted. The stilling air of afternoon has filled with swarms of gnats And the swifts, gone for so long, Diving now and climbing swooping in their zigzag flight Appeared as from a secret niche Hidden in some silent fold In time and space Called by a faint note, unheard To eat their fill and then return
How quickly the balance scale can tip And the unexpected be what is. Soon neither swarming gnats nor swooping birds Are seen And the empty air of afternoon Has changed its light To suit the movement Of the clouds And the rhythm of the stream.
How is it we got to talking, As we sat out the light Of a summer evening, About fireflies? How they danced in the air Of our childhood Making little holes of light All around in our soul That now dance as we watch them In the vast darkness of our minds Together, in the growing dusk Of the garden?
And that they’re different from The glowworms of France Whose little fires sit in ditches And, in such stillness, signal mates. No children run and scoop these into jars to make those lanterns that will shine and glitter in the darkness Of the sleep-night by their beds
