Ali: March 2011

We spent the weekend up in Ventura. Dan and his dad moved Dan's grandpa into an assisted living home while Charlie and I hung out with our good friends, Tim and Nicole. We had such a good time, mostly because Tim and Nicole were amazing hosts who graciously welcomed us into their home and spoiled us with amazing food. (See here: http://www.theomanfamily.com/

The part I can't get out of my head, the scene that has been twisting inside my brain ever since is when we first arrived at Dan's Grandpa's home. His grandfather's memory is quickly fading and the past and present have become so intertwined that it's difficult to figure out what exactly he is able to understand about the present. At 96 years old, he looks perfectly healthy, so it's somewhat bewildering when he speaks and you realize that memories have become rather jumbled. He's forgotten what you said a few minutes prior. He's not sure why everyone is gathered in his room. He believes his wife is still alive.

This is the part that I can't stop remembering and it's strange because I'm envious of him in that regard. If only I could forget. We were all sitting closely together in his living room when he started speaking. "Yeah, so Mary is traveling all through South America right now. Seeing lots of really interesting things."

Silence.

He continues. "She wrote me a letter and sent it from South America and it's strange because she has the king's last name."

I wondered if there was even a king in South America.

Dan's dad came to the rescue and told him that was neat that she was getting to travel. Dan and I looked at each other nervously and I rummaged through Charlie's diaper bag to create a distraction. Part of me wanted to disappear. To make the awkwardness go away. To cry.

And then I had an image that I hoped Earl had. I pictured his wife, Mary, very much alive in South America with the wind blowing in her hair. I could see her smiling with a big flower in her hand, sort of Love in the Time of Cholera-esque. Maybe a parrot flying above. The smell of roses almost overhwhelming. After spending the day hiking through Colombia or Peru or Bolivia she would sit down and write her husband a long letter about her travels. How much she'd seen. How much she missed him.

At first I wanted to cry because he ~~didn't~~ doesn't even know that his wife is gone. Then I realized, I imagined, I hoped, that the mind was creating these fabrications as a way to protect itself from deep and tragic loss. And I thought how romantic it all was. His wife, gone five years, is not gone at all. Maybe she's not with him physically but she's still alive. She's still out there. She's still happy.

South America. The King. Letters. Adventure.

And I pictured how lovely it would be to believe that the people we love aren't gone. They are simply on an adventure of their own, dropping letters in the mail when they find the time. Always remembering. Always loving. Always alive.