Day 3 ~ I spent the day at my mama's house, the house my father died in years ago. I went by myself, sitting in spaces (his spaces) that pull forward an tugging undercurrent of grief....my own grief and the grief that I feel for my family's loss, for my mama's loss. I didn't go there for that, but that is what I got. There aren't constant reminders. The house is not stuck in time. It's not any kind of mausoleum or memorial to him, it's very much her space now, and so when I happened upon the occasional small thing that was his, I found myself clutching, smelling, feeling the weight of it in my hands. I might have imagined that I was catching his scent under the detergent on his favorite purple turban. Maybe it's just that I can still remember exactly what he smelled like. His jewelry felt so heavy in my hands. Heavier than I remember. When I spend time in this space, I am reminded of the loss, for us, for my mama...and also of the magical family mythology that binds us to each other and also to him. Today I am grateful for these words by Lucille Clifton:
she lived
after he died
what really happened is
she watched the days
bundle into thousands,
watched every act become
the history of others,
every bed more
narrow,
but even as the eyes of lovers
strained toward the milky young
she walked away
from the hole in the ground
deciding to live. and she lived.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fighting the Good Fight, Day 3: Mobile Loaves and Fishes