Hi Dan, I love you!
Joe On 4/27/09 10:56 PM, "Dan Glover" <[email protected]> wrote: > > > Meditations - On Loss and the Nature of Suffering > > "I was pregnant," Lila said. > > "How old were you?" > > "Sixteen. Seventeen when she was born." > > "That's too young," The Captain said. [LILA] > > > In the spring, she'd wear apple blossoms in her hair. The flowers' whiteness > contrasted so with the darkness of her skin and hair and eyes that my heart > bled and my breath sometimes caught short in my chest, as if I were drowning > in the spell of her beauty. Sometimes, still, when I am drifting off to sleep > or maybe just waking, I think I hear her voice... she's saying my name; I > fancy the way it rolls off the tip of her tongue with that little hint of > accent. She calls me Daniel. No one ever called me by that name before and no > one has called me by that name since. > > We married young. Her name was Yolanda. I called her Yoli. I remember she > smelled of incense and her lips tasted of peppermint and wild strawberries and > we couldn't touch enough of each other. Back then, when people talked about us > - and they did talk about this goofy gringo and that crazy Spanish chick - > they said we "had" to get married. They didn't understand. We wanted to get > married. The baby merely gave us an excuse. I like to think we taught each > other what it meant to love. > > We lived in Traverse City, Michigan in a little yellow house with white wooden > shutters on the sides of the windows and a big back yard surrounded by trees > in a quiet older part of town. There wasn't much work there except logging, > after they closed the plastic factory where we worked together, where we first > met. > > After that, I hired on to work with a crew that clear-cut trees and brush off > of hillsides up in Canada in an area about six hours drive north. Of course it > was too far to drive back and forth so we'd stay two weeks at a time, sleeping > in tents or the back of trucks. Back then we didn't have cell phones or GPS. > When we were on site there was no timely way of reaching us. I needed the > work. There were bills to pay and a baby on the way. > > Yoli was seven months pregnant when I left her to go north. The doctor said > not to worry... she wasn't due for a while. I'd only be gone a couple weeks. > She was seventeen and all alone; she must have been scared, but she never let > on if she was. I was eighteen and didn't know any better, or I would have > never left her side. > > A Jeep showed up at the job site three days after we arrived. I remember > seeing the dust from miles away. An uneasy feeling came over me. Whoever it > was, they were moving too fast for those loose gravel roads. There had to be a > reason. The Jeep came out of the trees and slid to a halt. A man climbed out > and came running up the hill calling my name as he ran. He said he had bad > news, that I better come with him and get in the Jeep and go back south, right > now. I did. On the way he explained that Yolanda had had a miscarriage but she > was going to be okay. > > When I got to the hospital I found out the man had lied; I couldn't blame him. > He probably didn't know how to tell me the truth. I wouldn't have known how > were it me doing the telling. Yolanda passed away shortly after giving birth > to our son. The doctor said he tried to save her but he couldn't stop the > bleeding. He tried his best. He assured me that everyone tried their best. > > It was the middle of the night and he was just an intern and there was so much > blood. He kept saying it, over and over... there was so much blood, so much > blood... and shaking his lowered head and staring at his hands as if they were > still stained red while tears ran down his face. She had a ruptured uterus; he > didn't know what else to do so she laid there and died while they tried to > reach a real doctor. I sat there, listening, silently weeping into a crumpled > paper towel I had the presence of mind to stick into my back pocket. I waited > until later to do my screaming. Alone. > > They named our son Daniel. He lived for two hours. He was born too early. We > planned to name him Luis, after her grandfather. But no one knew that save us. > The priest wanted a name for the baptism before our son died. A nurse > suggested they use my name. I remember being a bit put out at the time. Now > though, whenever I see that name, his name, my name, I think of him. I've come > to see it as both curse and blessing. > > My brother and his girlfriend had a baby about that same time, a boy. They > gave him up for adoption. They said they weren't ready. We weren't ready > either, Yoli and me. But there was no way we were going to give up little > Luis. We were a family. I don't understand my brother's decision. We've never > talked about it but I bet he doesn't understand either. At the time it > appeared to me that life wasn't as fair as I thought it should be. I've since > come to see that I was wrong. > > Not long afterwards, I remarried, raised another family, and eventually > divorced. My first marriage happened so fast it's almost like it never > occurred at all. All I have left are a couple old wrinkled pictures of Yoli > smiling her smile into the camera and our cheap gold-plated wedding rings that > I keep together on a little silver-looking chain in an old tattered shoe box > full of treasures I've accumulated along the way. > > The kids don't know about my first family. I never told them. I saw no reason. > I started to tell my second wife but I could see she didn't care to hear about > it so I never brought it up again. In fact, this is the first time I've come > close to telling it to anyone in detail. > > I am not sure why I am writing about it now. I find it makes me very sad. > Writing out these beautifully terrible memories deep into dark lonely nights > helps give rise to the most vicious morning headaches. I can barely deal with > them; I'm not good with physical pain... and I never have headaches, not like > this, not until now. It seems better to write than not, I suppose, but I'm in > no way sure about that. > > Aspirin and coffee for breakfast allows me to face yet another day. It's > either that or whiskey and dirt. And I'm not ready for dirt. Besides, maybe > some day some distant descendant of mine will want to know who I was, and why. > Maybe these bits and pieces of a battered and bruised heart will help tell the > tale, for what it's worth. Maybe I owe it to them, somehow. > > I remember Yoli's mother hugging me at the funeral, whispering in my ear, > accusing me: ustedes hizo esto. All I could say was: Yo sé. I know. I felt so > guilty. I should have been there. It's been over thiry five years but it feels > like yesterday. I still curse myself for my ignorance. I buried Yoli and > Daniel together and went back to work. But just to tell the boss I quit. I > couldn't do it anymore. > > I've tried to live a Good life. I'm probably not the best father nor was I as > good a husband as I might have been. I suppose none of that matters as much as > it would in a more perfect world. Even knowing of this world's flaws though, I > sometimes think I should have more regrets than I do. If I believed I was in > control of anything at all, perhaps I would. I know that I am not. > > I feel as shiftless as a broken leaf blowing in the brisk spring breeze, > bereft of even any hope of finding solace. I know I will finally land where I > will, lay there a short while, and then rot back into the ash from which I > sprang. It is (of course) the way. > > Yet, were I still a good Catholic I think I should like to believe that when > the light of this marvelous world finally dies for good I'll see Yoli and > Daniel again standing there waiting for me at the edge of some nameless green > forest with wide smiles on their faces and a deep knowing in their eyes. > Disbeliever that I am, I do confess to sometimes wondering though if they'd > remember me... > > "He stood there for a long time looking around outside. Then he looked back > down at her. > > "How old is your baby now?" he asked. > > That surprised her. That was a new one. "What do you want to know that for?" > > "I already told you before I started asking all these questions," he said. > > "She's dead." > > "How did she die?" he asked. > > "I killed her," she said. > > She watched his eyes. She didn't like them. He looked mean. > > "You mean accidentally," he said. > > "I didn't cover her right and she smothered," Lila said. "That was long ago." > > "Nobody blamed you though." > > "Nobody had to. What could they say. . . that I didn't already know?" [LILA] > > Comfortably numb, > > Dan > > > Mi vida Dinámica > > Somos arcilla sin voz, mi hijo, > todavía no se formó > antes de la memoria espléndido. > > (My Dynamic Life > > We are voiceless clay, my son, > not yet formed > before the wonderful memory.) > > > > > > > > > _________________________________________________________________ > Rediscover Hotmail®: Get e-mail storage that grows with you. > http://windowslive.com/RediscoverHotmail?ocid=TXT_TAGLM_WL_HM_Rediscover_Stora > ge2_042009 > Moq_Discuss mailing list > Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. > http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org > Archives: > http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ > http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/ Moq_Discuss mailing list Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org Archives: http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/
