Archive: Memories

When I was a little girl, I hated to dry the dishes from the dishwasher. My parents refused to use the heated drying cycle of the dishwasher, so it was my job to wipe off each dish before putting it back. To make the task go faster, I’d put on “dish music” and sashay on the ceramic tile with my dish towel waving. Each season had its dish music: fall was Aaron Copland, winter was The Nutcracker, spring was Canadian Brass, and summer was the Boston Pops. In response to my parents’ puzzled glances, I’d say matter-of-factly, “Kitchens were made for dancing,” and spin more pirouettes in my socks.

—

When I moved into my first apartment, JG came over occasionally to have dinner and hang out away from his dorm. Sharing the scant countertop space, we tossed salads and cooked pasta as we slid over the worn linoleum. Because I was just out of school, I couldn’t afford cable or internet access, so my only form of entertainment was the radio. (When a friend visited me, she exclaimed, “What is this, 1925?”) Dinnertime was about the same time that Delilah came on, so “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Butterfly Kisses,” and “My Heart Will Go On” were usual audio fare during the meal preparations. If I heard the opening measures of a standard like, “The Way You Look Tonight,” I’d take up JG’s left hand in my right and sway to the beat of the music. At first, he was taken aback by the whole thing, but I’d just power through, saying firmly, “Kitchens are made for dancing!” The way I saw it, the other square footage of my apartment was a sea of tan carpet, but the kitchen gave us just enough room for a private dance floor. I’m sure Delilah would have approved.

—

When JG and I settled on our first house, where we live now, we decided to have dinner at the house that night. I packed a crate with the microwave, a plastic container of chili, a bag of baby carrots, two bowls, and two spoons, and we were off. We ceremoniously used our new key to get into the house, which turned out to be inhospitably cold because the heat had been off for the whole day. I plugged in the microwave and set up bowls of chili to warm up when JG swept me up and started spinning me around on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. Thrown off, I asked what he was doing. JG dipped me and said, “Kitchens were made for dancing, of course.” And we savored our first dance as homeowners until the microwave beep signaled that dinner was ready.

Sunday Scribblings #52: In the Kitchen

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

Birthdays have never been a big deal for me. I’ve never been the type to count down the days and I can’t remember ever feeling different when it comes around. In fact, since my birthday falls in the beginning of the month, I’m almost always caught off-guard. It’s March 6? Already?

In my eighteen years of living at home, I can only recall 4 birthdays when I had an actual party. Before any “deprived childhood!” accusations ring out, let me clarify. We always had cake and opened presents with the family, but a party wasn’t an every-year thing. Looking back, I realize that they were stressful events for my mom and I didn’t really miss them. As long as I had cake (mm, marble cake), I was good to go.

Lack of parties notwithstanding, I still had my share of memorable birthdays:

• 7: We had a snow day! I went sledding and opened presents in the same day!
• 10: I had a double birthday party with my friend from gymnastics. Our moms treated all of the girls from the gym to pizza and we played charades. I remember trying to act out “possum.”
• 16: My friends threw me a Sweet Sixteen party that involved a dull game of Truth or Dare (winning questions included, “What did you get on the SATs?” and “What is your biggest regret?”) and the smart idea to throw me up in the air to “see if RA can do a basket toss.” Thankfully, no one was hurt.
• 18: A giant blizzard closed school for two days, including my birthday. I was so disappointed that I wasn’t able to walk through school and gloat about being able to buy things I had no intention of purchasing, like cigarettes and lottery tickets. To my surprise, several snow-delayed flower arrangements were delivered to my house the day after my birthday.
• 19: My then-boyfriend had broken up with me two or three days before, so my floormates threw me a calzone party and bought a cake that said, “Happy Birthday, RaRa!” Then all of the girls ate candy and watched The Wedding Planner. It was exactly what I needed.
• 21: JG took me out for dinner and my first drink and I was terrified of getting drunk because I had zero alcohol tolerance. I ordered a strawberry daiquiri that ended up much being much bigger and pinker than I had expected and I barely finished it by the end of the night. JG chuckled at me all throughout the meal because he knew that I kept asking myself, “Am I drunk? Is this what it feels like?”

I know I should be excited about the year ahead of me, but I just don’t get that excited on birthdays. I had bigger thrills on the first day of school or on our wedding anniversary; to me, birthday mostly says, “Congratulations for still being alive,” and I have to remember to say my updated age if anybody asks. The fact that today is Tuesday didn’t exactly invite an all-out party, either.

But when I came in to work this morning, there were birthday signs wallpapering my desk. The e-cards in my inbox produced welcome laughs during a particularly stressful morning and my co-workers even signed a fantastic card. There’s a giant crowd of penguins on the front and one of them is wearing an enormous sombrero. The inside reads, “Happy Birthday to Juan in a million!” Ha! Juan in a million! I love it. I’m not used to a whole big birthday thing, but I must admit that I enjoy a day that’s all mine.

Tonight, JG is cooking me a yummy dinner. Birthdays for us consist of whatever the birthday person likes to do, so I requested steamed mussels and pasta, with tiramisu for dessert while we watch the new episode of Gilmore Girls. Woo! We know how to party it up, let me tell you. On Saturday, JG is taking me out to an undisclosed location that he refuses to divulge and my sneaky attempts at trickery (“So where are we going, again?”) have proved fruitless. Ah, well. Maybe that’s what I’ll wish for when I blow out the candle on my tiramisu.

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.