Archive: Indie Bloggers

I’m curled up in bed, wearing sweats and bundled in layers of blankets. My book light casts a moonbeam onto the pages before me. The before-bed reading that usually slows my brain and rests my thoughts is not doing its work tonight. Reading is not the answer right now. A memory reserved for a birthday and an anniversary swims up to the surface.

- - -

I was on a train headed up to my parents’ house. I usually took the Amtrak train up the Northeast Extension, through Philadelphia and New York City, for almost all of my holidays back home. Normally, I looked forward to the train ride because it was relaxing. After the conductor tossed my luggage on the overhead rack, I’d sleep until we crossed the border into Connecticut. Involuntarily, I would snap awake to watch the marinas, the craggy beaches, and the small skylines of Hartford and New Haven through my window. I knew I should sit on the right-hand side for the best view. But this time was different.

A few days earlier, I had received a phone call from a friend from high school. Sit down, she told me.

I sat.

“I had to call you. Kip is dead. He committed suicide last night.”

No. Oh, no.

I called JG instinctively, my voice tight inside my throat. He biked over to find me speechless, stiff in his arms. There was no processing or talking it out. I curled into myself, physically and otherwise. Knowing that one of my best friends, a polar opposite and complementary figure, was no longer alive was too much. I could barely breathe without crying.

That is how I ended up on a train up to Connecticut with no major holiday to speak of. I was relieved to find a seat by myself, but at the Philadelphia stop, a young man boarded the car and asked if the seat was taken. I shook my head. I didn’t feel like talking, but the man struck up conversation, asking me where I was headed.

“New London,” I said, swallowing hard. “I have to go to a funeral.”

His face fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I hope everything goes well.”

“Thank you.”

My train friend paused, then struck up conversation on a different note. He told me about how he was headed back to Boston, after an interview in Philadelphia. He told me about graduate school and waved a book in his hand for emphasis. He told me about how he was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend and that, for Valentine’s Day, he gave her a bouquet of balloon-animal roses because he couldn’t afford real ones. I nodded along, quietly.

Our train rolled into Penn Station in New York and the man jumped up. “I hear there’s a Krispy Kreme stand here, so I’m going to grab one. Save my seat?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, he returned, bag of donuts in hand. “Do you like glazed?”

I was dumbfounded. He bought me a donut?

He waved away my dropped jaw. “They were having a special. Do you like glazed?”

“Yeah,” I said, “they’re my favorite. Thanks for this.”

He hunkered back down. “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for a saved seat.”

I ate slowly and wondered - are donuts therapeutic? Do they ease tension and lighten burdens? Or was it simply because this donut was a gift from a stranger from Boston?

As the train rolled out of Penn Station, my train friend reached into his brief case and asked, “Did I mention that I wrote a book?” He pulled out a slim children’s book with a picture of a locomotive on the cover. It was a re-telling of The Little Engine That Could and I leafed through it with pleasure. He had brought the book along as a sample for his interview and it was very charming, indeed. After I returned the book to him, I fell into a deep sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the train on the tracks. In my exhaustion, I missed out on my ritual of watching the boat docks and rocky seashores flow by the window.

When we arrived at my stop, my train friend helped me with my luggage and said, “I really do hope everything goes well for you. It was nice talking with you today.”

I was so grateful to him that I could only whisper my thanks.

At the service that night, I cried quietly. Hundreds of people had come to show their support, so I was one of many standing in a room that was not nearly large enough to hold the love we had for Kip. Afterward, I waited in a long line to greet his family: parents who had seen Kip and me singing in chorus concerts since the sixth grade, giving presentations, and graduating; and a younger brother who had long ago measured his growing progress next to me. As I hugged them, new tears sprang into my eyes. What can a person say? I am so, so sorry. I miss him, too. I know that I can’t miss him more than you do and it hurts me so much to know that you are hurting more than I am. I am so, so sorry.

When I got to him, Kip’s dad put me at arm’s length. Eyes sparkling, he said, “You were one of Kip’s best friends. We’re so glad to see you.” He hugged me closely and I could feel him crying into his beard.

- - -

Oh, my train friend. If not for you, I would have been concentrating on containing my grief with the fragile strands of control I had left, too afraid to speak from the threat of crying. But you drew me out, distracted me with tales of locomotives and balloon flowers, offered me well wishes in the end, and somehow made me strong enough to handle was ahead. Could you tell that I was broken? Was it apparent that every inhale pained me? Whatever the case, I was thankful for your kindness. I still am.

Tomorrow is a dark anniversary for me and I have already stained the cuffs of my hoodie with tears. JG is sleeping beside me, but I’ll wake him up for a bit. I need a hug.

Sunday Scribblings #94: Fellow Travelers

… and I feel like my brain is fried. I’m in the midst of a streak where I wake up tired in the mornings, wanting to succumb to the pull of gravity on my body and the lure of soft t-shirt sheets on my skin. I’m unable to resist dozing past my alarm. I dread the inevitable moment when I need to fling the covers off and trudge to the shower, where the water wakes me up, but not in a way that stops me from leaning against the acrylic, off-white wall with my eyes closed. It’s a temporary escape from the world of neon-green, digital numbers and the countdown to when I need to leave the house, but time doesn’t stand still, not even in the bathroom. I blink my contacts into place and try to settle on an outfit for the day before blasting my hair with the hair dryer and trying to hide my fatigue with makeup.

I drive to work and realize that after 25 minutes, I’ve arrived at the office and I don’t remember the ride at all. It bothers me a bit because I know I should be more aware. While my computer boots up, I hang up my coat, put my lunch in the fridge, peel an orange. My co-workers float in as the next half hour goes by and I offer them a cheerful face and a hi-how-are-you-how-was-your-night. I try not to seem tired, but my office mate can’t help but notice my frequent yawns and eagerness to eat lunch. Work keeps me busy, but not interested. I guess one out of two isn’t bad.

At the end of the day, I’m glad to push my chair back into place and tie a scarf around my neck. I notice that my shoulders relax as soon as I get into the car and pull out. My grip on the wheel is looser than in the morning. I’m much more energetic during my commute back home. I sing along to the radio and look forward to being home, a comforting haven where my husband and a good dinner are bound to show up; seeing JG is the first thing I’ve looked forward to all day. After giving my mind a break during an hour of primetime television, I head down to bed after JG – we operate on teacher time. I reverse my morning routine, donning pajamas and glasses to read a couple of chapters. JG turns in before I do and we exchange a good-night hug and kiss. When I can’t hold up the book any longer, I turn off my bedside lamp and burrow down into the covers. The morning comes far too soon.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe I need more sleep or less sleep. JG says I need to drink more water. I know I should do yoga in the mornings. Maybe that’s it. Common sense tells me that it’s too early to be yearning for the weekend, but my tired mind and body don’t agree.

When I was a senior in high school, I auditioned for and got a solo in the annual Christmas show presented by the chorus. I sang “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and did a tap dance number with Rudolph, or as much as a tap number as can be faked in sneakers or a reindeer suit. That year, one of my best friends, Kip, played Rudolph and we had so much fun with the song. He and I had always been in the same classes since fourth grade and even though we were polarized in terms of interests and temperament, we spoke the same language. I reminded him of when our assignments were due and he got me to loosen up, but most of all, we made each other laugh. Being friends since the fourth grade gave us plenty of fun times and being Rudolph & Girl was another one for the books. Somewhere, there’s a picture of the two of us from that performance, and I really wish I had a copy.

Kip’s birthday fell on Christmas Eve and one of our rituals was that he would tease me about how I’d never given him a gift for his birthday or Christmas. He knew that on the day before we got out of school for winter break, I’d hand him a candy cane taped to a Christmas card and say with a healthy dose of attitude, “Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas. Happy, now?” Kip would punch me, I would roll my eyes, and everything was how it should have been.

Just a few days after my twentieth birthday, I got a phone call at college with news that Kip had committed suicide. I boarded a train to go back home, where I wept silently during the funeral, and his parents cried when they hugged me. All I could think of was that however badly I was feeling, it must be so much worse for them. I ached with the knowledge that they were trying to comfort me. The anniversary of that week is still raw for me.

This morning, after reading a particularly poignant blog post, I sighed to myself, eyebrows furrowed. In response to my husband’s questioning eyes, I said slowly, “Yesterday was the first Christmas Eve that I didn’t remember that it was Kip’s birthday. In maybe fifteen years. And that makes me a little sad.” I hope I’m not on the path to forgetting, that the anniversary will go by and it’ll be just a regular day. I’m grasping at the memory, kicking myself for not remembering last night and having a quiet moment to reflect on it.

But the memory stings today when it’s clear that not all of the tears are spent.

I look at my engagement and wedding rings a lot … three times in an hour is probably a low estimate. I imagine that someone seeing the frequent gazes at my finger – maybe passing by my desk at work or standing behind me at the pharmacy – might think that I’m a brand-newlywed, but I’m okay with that.

The rings lure my eyes so easily but they’re very simple. My wedding band is a plain, white-gold band and it sits snugly behind my engagement ring, which is a thin, white-gold band with a round-cut diamond. My sister commented that I had “gone way traditional” when she first saw it, but that’s what I think engagement rings look like. I don’t have a rock that will blind someone across the room, but I’m a small person, and I wanted something in proportion to me. When I look at it, I remember the first time I realized how amazingly reflective diamonds are. I was sitting at my computer and my hand drifted into the sunbeam that fell across my desk. Tiny points of light danced on my wall, and I moved my hand slightly, transfixed at the spots’ movements. I was stunned that the ring on my very own finger could create that much light and play. I still like to see how lamplight is reflected within and outside of the stone, but that’s a bit of the inner geek talking.

Sometimes, for just a few minutes, I take off my rings and wear one at a time. I feel like they embody different stages of my life. The engagement ring is anticipation: wearing it alone brings back the excitement of wedding planning, showers, and the pleasure of telling how JG proposed. The wedding ring is contentment; the solitary band is modest and symbolizes a long, strong commitment. It’s uncluttered and quiet, the way I’d like to be in the future. My rings give me aspirations of optimism and serenity and I like them together because of it.

Pragmatically, I know that these pieces of jewelry are just metal and carbon and these cold, hard materials do not intrinsically inspire affection and awe. What is it, then?

Ah, it’s the giver. Yes, I think of anticipation and contentment when I see them, but most of all, I think of JG. I remember him down on one knee and at the altar. I remember saying yes and saying vows. That’s a lot to handle, and somehow, all of it is compressed into these two rings. No wonder I look at them so often. Maybe I’ll be able to wrap my head around it one of these days.

Until then, I’m satisfied to look my rings periodically, and occasionally flutter them in front of JG and say, “Look how pretty!” as he shakes his head. He knows I love them and him, but not in that order.