Light: Chapter 32

(Re)Making Love: a serial memoir

Come in the middle? Here’re links to ➡️ Chapter One, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 , Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14 , Chapter 15 , Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25 , Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31

Light

When a photographer uses a filter, a transparent or translucent disc, on his lens, he alters the light. If a flock of geese appeared on a clear day—cumulus clouds, horizontal white streaks on blue—and the photographer placed a lens on his camera’s eye, for a black and white photo—as if that term, black-and-white, accurately defines a photo without color—the lens turns the clouds gray as on a dark day, and the bird’s wings white, their undersides, shadows of their shapes.

How we see: Through a scrim.

On August 25 my parent’s anniversary, I wrote when I began to tell—like a child “telling”—and so I repeat here, childishly repeat: They were married fifty-four years. Can you believe it?

“I need to live alone,” he said, oh so Greta Garbo.

There was absolutely no noise.

But how to see my way? That is the question. Is that not always the question?

Bird on a wire, out of the cage.

Nietzsche says, He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.

When D. and I went to see The Reader, the movie, based on the book, about the woman who teaches herself to read—first I touched his arm to reach for it. He said, “Don’t pull on my sleeve.” In the movie, he bought popcorn.

We’re on a date. I’m moved by him despite the gesture of dismissal, moved by all that I’ve known of him.

This is the man who left me.

I eat a handful of popcorn, reach to touch his head, the head he shaves—smooth like a baby’s bottom. My thirty-five-year-old daughter has had a child. D. thinks of my daughter as his daughter. A birth, a new life in a new marriage.

Again he pushes me away. “Greasy,” he says, as if that mattered, as if I’d muss his hair, as if the popcorn were buttered. It’s not.

I recall: After we’d sold the house, after I’d taken the job as a visiting writer at U. of Missouri, he invited me to a wine tasting at the Greek Embassy—this man who did not want me though he’d not said that. After that awful Greek Embassy thing (barely any food that you had to fight for and zillions of people standing in line for wine), he wanted to take me out some place; I wanted to go home, but we went to Cloud in Dupont Circle. I asserted, “You don’t desire me. Tell me.” “No,” he said.

Like the O ring on the Challenger that exploded in the sky—from where we stood watching through a lens: no noise. Like the O ring when placed in 32-degree water. “The O ring, a large key to the problem,” the investigator said. Indeed, it would not give, it wouldn’t expand or contract—frozen.

We were frozen.

After The Reader, when we get to my condo . . . Gone: the house with the chef’s kitchen, the four-story one-hundred-year-old Victorian we’d renovated like a wish fulfilled . . . D. stays with me. We watch The Thomas Crown Affair, the second version, the one with Pierce Brosnan, the financier and art thief who takes a hundred-thousand-dollar bet on a golf swing from a sand-trap the day after he’d stolen the Monet, and Rene Russo, the insurance investigator who wants to nail him, get his head—you know that he loves her: When he gives her the controls on his glider that slides through the sky with no motor—“Like a hawk”—when he brushes his hand across her hair. While they are window shopping, when he stands behind her, his head down, when he takes hold of her shoulders, the slight brush of his hands.

No noise.

I wake in the middle of the night, know that he must go, that I’m returning to territory I know too well: backtracking.

I backtrack: a dream: My father lies in a bed, my dead mother stands near. An official-looking man, clipboard in hand, asks him questions. He says to me, “I know you hate me.” I say, “I don’t hate you because I believe you know that my father’s intelligence and wry sense of humor drive his answers.” The clipboard-man persists, says that my father’s answer to his last question confirms that he cannot live on his own: assisted living needed, nursing home more likely. “So what was the question?” I ask. “If you are outside, on open grass and see an object coming toward you, what do you do?” “And his answer?” I ask. “Golf.”

In the morning, we make love and, as we begin, I say, “The trouble with you is,” and he says, “Only one trouble?” I say, “The trouble with you is that I love you.” And he says, “That’s not the trouble. That makes all things possible.”

I look out a window. Sky and water merge and in the mix I see iridescent blue-black birds, yellow-blue-black fish on limbs of trees. Through the glass, safe inside a house with a large kitchen, my pots hang again. But how could fish and fowl, light and small as they are come to my tree? How could they, so rare in size and startled color, come so close to me?

The answer is, Whoever would become light and a bird . . .

Photo by Andy Duback www.andyduback.com

Coming next: Chapter 33: “Forget Paris”

Love,