Today is the second anniversary of her death.
From “Metaxu” (an draft excerpt from the beginning of this piece can be found in Hanging Loose 98):
To pause at the boundary between Automotive and Housewares is to acknowledge that the boundary is neither threshold nor barrier — it is only human nature. And one must keep moving, because neither we nor the dead are given to lingering, only to leaving and remembering. As I’m leaving Automotive I’m remembering an ordinary morning, the last day of May 2010, when I was still wondering if you’d made it through, still longing to be given, at last, something of you I could point to. And so I walked into the kitchen and went to the window and asked the subtle answerer, dark to the eye but radiant to the mind, to send me a sign that you’d made it through — an unlikely sign, something so unusual it could only be a sign: a rainbow from the mud of the sacred place. Something not possible on a clear cloudless day, the sacred place having been bulldozed years ago, replaced by a sinkhole. And what was the sacred place, anyway? Merely a patch of grass between three big evergreens — barely a memory. And so I waited at the window, waited and waited, waited staring stupidly at the sky. Fifteen minutes went by, and I was about to walk away, when the boy next door appeared in the yard, to water his mother’s flowers. He prowled the perimeter with the hose, and I was almost exhausted with waiting when he moved to a far corner, at the back, where three arborvitae had recently had been planted, and he shifted position in the space-time continuum, and the water arced high, acquiring light, and the shimmering colors appeared, and then disappeared, in a place I didn’t think to look, by a way I never thought to see. Was that my sign that you’d made it through? Or only a moment when conditions were sufficient?
Sufficient to rupture the opaque gelatinous loaf with that which no sacrifice abides — that which gently, relentlessly survives?
We were mortal together; we shared human nature. And so maybe someday we will recognize each other, and arrive again at a fated destination. Until then, may the link remain the mothers, strangers to each other, and Death their singular gift, their strange trinket.
Let all Time be this moment, and let it be quiet. Let it be the dead’s forgiveness, and let it give them requiem. Let our common disaster be our shared rapture, the source of the sylvan tone.
Stir and endure then, little sister. Live again as light, lucid and vibrant; grow and become a world. When conditions are sufficient, be reborn in every moment.
You are the youth no longing can restore.
May your light acquire, now and forever, ever more gracious forms.