(thanks marilyn!)
He was the most intelligent man I had ever known. One day he called to invite me to lunch, and proposed we meet the following week. Somehow the idea of the pleasure I would have from listening to him was countered by a malaise: The fear of not being up to it. So, to ready myself I asked him what we would talk about. It was an exercise that I knew was as silly as it was vain, but one that would comfort me. D chose a theme instantly: What makes you get up in the morning? I prepared myself all week, accumulating all kinds of answers. When the day came, I asked him for his opinion on the matter; and he said: "The smell of coffee." That was it. Then we changed the subject. Coffee was served. I stole the cup as a memory of our lunch together.
He was an unreliable man. For our first date he showed up one year late. Therefore, when he left, to make sure he would come back, I insisted that he leave something with me as a hostage. A week later, he sent me his most precious possession: a small French nineteenth-century painting, entitled The Love Letter, that portrays a young girl who bears an uncanny likeness to me. A year passed, and on January 18, 1992, after having rented two rings and a witness, I became his bride in a simple ceremony held at a 24-hour drive-up wedding window on Route 604 in Las Vegas. Later he gave me The Love Letter as a wedding gift. I had acquired a husband but in the process had lost my guarantee that he would always come back to me.
My great aunt was named Valentine. She was born on the 4th of February 1888. At the age of 96 she grew tired of living. But she had set herself a goal: to live to a hundred. Just before her hundredth birthday, while unconscious and near death in her bed, she momentarily revived and murmured: "How many days left?" There were six days left. "I'll last," she whispered, "I'll last." She died the 4th of February 1988. For her epitaph she had chosen a verse from the Bible: "She hath done what she could." Not long before her death, she had embroidered a sheet with my initials. I gave it to my friend, Herve, who was seriously ill, in memory of that night long ago when he had refused to share my bed. It was my way of inviting him to sleep a little with me. And then, I also liked thinking that, having been embroidered by a woman who lived to be a hundred by sheer tenacity of will, this sheet, imbued with her faith, would give him her strength.
My grandmother lived for many years tete-a-tete with her television. One day she fell ill, and was taken to the hospital, where she remained several months until she died on December 23, 1986. When I went to her house to find a memento of her, I chose the TV guide that was still on a table by the television: her last issue of Tele Star. For my grandmother, life stopped during Number 29, in the week of August 16 to 22, 1986.
posted by amy
0 Comments
