Day 213: Hear Me Out, That Which You Call Death

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. The first two lines are borrowed from "The Wild Iris" by Louise Gluck.

September 29, 2014

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Doors installation by Chan Hwee Chong.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
You could not come with me. The You of My Words
with your palms flat on my face and your lips on
the tip of my nose. You could not come with me.
My love person, with your head on my chest and
arms wrapped around my sides. I remember. I was there, too.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Look! It is my heartbeat! I was speaking to you.
I'm right here, babe. I heard you tell me. I will
not leave you. I heard you speak. Your parents are
coming, babe. They will be here soon. I heard you
speaking to me. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.
I heard you speak. Your sweet, calming voice washed
over me as it always had. I heard you and I spoke back
in the beating of my heart. 111. 111. 111. It was me, babe.
I was speaking back to you. Did you hear me?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Caleb. Mina. Paige. Beth. John. I remember. I was there.
They pulled you from me, babe. I remember. You did not
want to leave. I felt it, your heartbreak. Your hurt. I climbed
into your cage of ribs. Did you feel me then? I climbed
right into your cage of ribs and tried to comfort you.
My love person. My sweetheart. I had always wanted
to break free and inhabit the same cage of ribs as yours.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Scott. I am so sorry. What trouble
I've been. This is not your fault. You are not at fault. You
must never reproach yourself. I remember. I was there, too.
I felt your hands on my leg. I heard you speaking. My bear!
Scotty, my bear! You remembered. My bear. My childhood
bear made the long flight with you. I know how you tried to
comfort me. Could you feel me trying to comfort you, too?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
I remember seeing the love in that room. Around my bed. Surging
through you, through me, through each other. You could not see
it, but with eyes swollen shut and yet eyes wide open I could see
it all. Swirling colors. Glowing sparks. You were each lit in love.
All that you touched- my legs, my face, my hair, my hands-
remained covered in this phosphorescent love. It warmed me.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. You could not
come with me. You're going to have to do this alone, babe.
You told me. And I remember. You can do this. We're here.
Everyone's here. And it's ok. You can do this. You opened
the door, the door through which I had to go alone, you
opened it and stepped back. You could not come with me.

Hear me out: this was the end of my suffering. And the
beginning of yours. Hear me out: I am not far. And your
suffering will end. Hear me out, my love. My love person.
The You of My Words. Place your head and hand to this door
as you did to my chest. Are you there? Are you in there, babe?
I heard you there in my hospital bed.  I heard you begging for
a response. Please don't confuse my stillness with my absence.

At the end of my suffering there was a door. I walked through
alone, as I was asked. As I needed to do. I had to walk through
it alone. Go to it. Go right up to it. Place your hand and your head
against it and be still. Listen. Listen for me. Just when you think I
cannot hear you, hear me out: I am there. On the other side. I am there.

Day 212: I Remember Those Robes

I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 21. Write about something I remember. Pick one thing and go.

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September 28, 2014

 

I remember those robes. Those ridiculous robes. Not at all silk. More like Grandma's very outdated curtains. Highly flammable, I'm sure. We find them hanging on sturdy wooden hangers at the first ever motel we stay in together. We decide to take a trip to Gwangju, about a 1.5 hour drive from Hadong. We each have friends to visit, and an overnight trip away seems like fun. 

We meet your friend and two Korean friends of his. Women. (How did you know him? I can't recall. He was tall. Bald. Handsome face.) We have tacos and later tea at a tea house with them. Our tea comes in different cups accompanied by a little wooden animal on the saucer. We are not allowed to take them home.

Your tea is fruity, and the waitress explains it "makes man's pee powerful." Traditional story states that some very important man drank this same tea, and the next morning he broke his chamber pot with the sheer force of his urine stream. Whoa. I can't wait to hear the goings on of you using the bathroom the next morning. It proves...uneventful. Porcelain spared. Liars.

After tea we dance in the alley on the way back to the car, and later you write a poem about it. You ask the Korean women what one calls one's sweetheart, and we are delighted to learn the direct translation: "love person." We start calling each other "love person." This is in your poem. 

It is well into the evening when we reach our car, and we realize we haven't a clue where to stay for the night. One of the women offers to ride with us and take us to a place nearby- "Evergreen Motel." It is cheap, she says, about 45,000 won for the night.

A modest place along the river and close to downtown, Evergreen Motel is fairly typical of any inexpensive "love motel" sprouting up all over the country. Nothing feels too shady about checking in at the little window, but we do receive a plastic zippered kit with all the amenities: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair bands, and 2 condoms. A welcome gift, if you will.

The room feels like a throwback to a 1960s movie set. Shiny wallpaper, heavy gold brocade bedspread, dark wood paneling. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale laundry. And those robes.

Mine is in the rose-family of colors. Yours is dusty blue. The performers in us are in those robes and taking ridiculous photographs before our bags hit the floor.

"Oooh! Mine has a sash! Does yours have a sash?" I yelp.

"Does mine have a sash? Look at this exquisite knot I've tied!"

"That is impressive! Did you learn that in boy scouts?"

"I learned THIS in boy scouts!" And you proceed to make a ridiculous pose- left foot on the bed, left elbow on your left knee, eyebrows raised, right hand on your hip.

"Oh! That's fantastic! I learned THIS from my GRANDMA!" And I make an equally ridiculous pose, meant to be so unsexily-sexy that our attraction parts would recoil. I can't quite recall the exact pose, but it involved a doorway.

"Oh! Let's take a portrait!" I suggest.

"YES. Great idea."

The camera is set up on the counter, just above the tiny fridge with the two cold cans of orange juice and the one large bottle of water. (provided) My robe makes hideous swishing sounds as I run from the camera to the bed where you are already sitting in a noble pose, leaning on your left thigh, right hand on your knee. I jump up and kneel at your side, placing my chin on your left shoulder.

"These robes are so SHINEEEEEEE!" I mumble through my camera-grin. Click. I run to the camera and hit the button again. Flip on the lights. Swish. Swish. Swish. Hop on the bed. Click. Perhaps the cheesiest faces we are able to make.

"Who has fun doing things like this?" you ask. 

"We do!" I grab your face with both hands and plant a big one on the side of your head.

"Let's do a standing pose. A really bad one," you suggest. 

"Oh! Let's!"

I hop off to set the camera up again and you swat me on my backside. "Hey, you!" I yell. I hit the button on the camera again and leap over to where you are. Like we had been practicing for days to be on the cover of an appalling romance novel, we slide instantly into place, your left hand behind my neck, right hand around my waist. I'm looking up for a kiss, but you're looking at the camera like, "Oh, yeah...I am a sexy man and this is what sexy men do!" Click.

This is the one that almost makes us pee our pants laughing. Who has fun like this? We do. You. Me. Those ridiculous robes. That smoky motel room. That harsh lighting.

I remember it. I remember all of it. I remember what it was to have incredible fun with you. To recognize the children in each other and not be afraid to play. To recognize the adult in one another and not be afraid to love deeply.

I remember this. I remember you.

Day 211: The Day I Forget To Count

September 27, 2014

I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 20.

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"Giving Up is Not an Option" by German artist Ole Ukena, 2012.

The Day I Forget to Count

I am afraid to stop counting.

The days since you fell from that window. (210)

The days since you died. (207)

The days since I last hugged your parents. (203)

I’m afraid to stop counting.
The number of poems you wrote for me. (88)

The hikes we went on. (6)

The trips we took to Geoje Island. (2)

I’m afraid to stop counting.

The t-shirts I still have of yours. (4)

The times we skyped with your friends and family. (3)

The watches you got me as presents. (3).

Why count what you imagine to be limitless?

The number of times we kissed.

The nights we spent walking.

The beats of your heart.

I didn’t know they needed counting.
I didn’t know the number was finite.

I am afraid to stop counting.

I am afraid you’ll disappear. 

Day 210: What I Want to Forget

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. In the last post, I addressed What do I want to remember? Today I finally feel ready to write about What do I want to forget? 

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The things I want to forget are scattered across

the terrain of my interior self like landmines.

A truck backing up on a narrow street in Portland

during my visit this past summer- beeeep beeep beeep

And I am suddenly walking into that hospital room again-

beeeep beeep beeep- I am approaching his bed. beeeep beeep beeep –

The truck is continuing to back up and it won’t stop making

that hideous sound. I cannot get the sound out of my head.

I am placing my palms flat against his warm face. I am kissing his bruised

and swollen eyelids. beeeep beeep beeep- I am kissing the tip of his nose.

The truck is continuing to back up. It is beeping and beeping and

I am wishing it would roll right over me. How is no one hearing this?

The only indication that he is alive is that sound beeeep beeep beeep-

and the rising and falling of his chest, which he isn’t even doing on his own.

I want to forget that beeping sound, the external measure of his beating heart.
I know that beat. I heard it through his chest with my head pressed tightly.

Boom. Explosion. Where is there to hide when the sharp pieces start

to fly? I want to forget. I want to forget that I ever heard that sound.

I am standing with my childhood friend and my bright-eyed Goddaughter

in an interactive exhibit at a museum. She is pretending to be a vet.

Stuffed animals are everywhere. A pretend clinic. Stethoscopes. Little

ones running here and there caring for their sick patients. They are laughing.

It was the sight of the little white lab coats that set off the first mine.

Turning to see the stainless steel exam table set off the rest of them.

My breath was sucked right out of me and while everyone else, in slow

motion, went about their regularly scheduled activities, I was hit with a

near-fatal blow. Blows. To the heart. To the stomach. To the head.

I want to forget. I want to forget those white coats and that silver table.

I want to forget being led to a room to collect his ashes. I want to forget

walking in front of the family, as though I could protect them from what

we were about to see. I want to forget that blue sign above the door. The

absurdity of the translation. “Comb Out Bone.” I want to forget that we

were being led to a room called “Comb Out Bone.” I want to forget the

moment we realized what we were about to see and how Gareth’s

brother led his mom away, down the hall, where she could be shielded

from the sight. I want to forget how Gareth’s father and I remained, how

I held on to his right arm. How I held so tightly to that arm to keep myself

upright. I want to forget that what I was seeing threatened to bring me to the ground.

I want to forget the large glass window that separated Gareth’s father and I

from what almost looked like a staged setting: A sparse room. Two men in

white lab coats. A stainless steel examination table in front of two stainless

steel doors with powerful latches. I want to forget that it looked like square

doors to a walk-in freezer. I want to forget how the two men, the two men

in white lab coats, each held a door handle and blasted the room, their faces

my heart, singed my eyes, with the heat. I want to forget how momentarily

the escaping heat made everything wiggle. Made everything distort.

My Goddaughter is dressed in a white lab coat and putting a pretend

puppy upon a stainless steel exam table. She is checking its heart.

My heart has been pierced by a thousand pieces of shrapnel. I cannot

remove them without threatening to bleed out more. I want to forget.

I want to forget these two men in white lab coats with white masks and

white caps. I want to forget how they reached into that scorching hole

and pulled out the bones of my love. Pulled the long tray right out-
the tray that held the body of my love. I want to forget seeing that tray

slide out onto the table. I want to forget seeing his bones. I want to forget
recognizing the pieces- a piece of his leg. A piece of his jaw. His skull.

This was what was underneath everything when we were wrapped in

each other’s arms. Here was his structure. Here were the pieces of my love.

I want to forget. The industrial-sized dustbin. The two brooms held by the

two men in white coats. The sweeping. The sweeping of my love’s bones.

My Goddaughter makes her puppy hop up and down on the table. She

has cured it. Miraculous little doctor in a white coat. She has brought it

back from the dead. I want to forget that my love could not be brought

back. I want to forget seeing him, that strong and beautiful man, reduced

to segments of identifiable bone. I want to forget that I know what happens

between death and picking up of someone’s cremains. I want to forget.

I want to forget the careful way the two men, the two men in white coats,

swept up all of my love. Every last piece of bone and scattering of dust.

I want to forget those two brushes dancing back and forth across the

surface of that metal table, sweeping up my love. Sweeping him into a dustpan.

I want so desperately to forget the sound. The sound of the grinding of his bones
in a machine into a fine powder. I want to never remember how ashes are made.

I want to forget that it takes approximately 3.5 hours to burn away the man

I love and approximately 30 seconds to grind his bones into a white dust.

I want to forget standing there, holding onto his father’s arm, and watching

this all take place. I want to forget that I was setting up landmines across the

terrain of my interior self to detonate later. Where is there to hide? Where

can one go when the blast occur, without warning, inside of oneself?

I want to forget the ceremonious way the two men in white coats tapped

his ashes out on a long sheet of white paper. How the paper was folded and

folded again, until the shape of it fit exactly into the dark wooden box we

had picked out. I want to forget we had picked out a box. I want to forget

how this box was passed through a cutout in that glass window to another

man. A man in a sharply pressed suit and a blue crisp shirt. I want

to forget the white gloves. The pair of white gloves given to Gareth’s father
so he could receive the box of his son’s ashes in the customary fashion. I

want to forget the man in the suit wrapping Gareth’s box in white fabric.

Careful folds. Precise angles. A strong knotted finish on the top. I want

to forget thinking Gareth would have appreciated the ancient tradition

of this all. That he would have found this part to be acceptable. Just right.

I want to forget watching the man in the suit face Gareth’s father, holding

the box chest-high. I want to forget seeing the gloved hands of Gareth’s father

reaching out and taking the box. The bow that followed from the man in

the suit. The return bow from Gareth’s father, now holding his son’s cremains.

“He’s still warm,” he said. “I can feel him. He’s still warm.” I want to

forget that he said this. That I heard it. I want to forget the sight of Gareth’s

father standing there, holding the ashes of his son, his beautiful boy, and

saying “This reminds me of when I held him in the hospital for the first time.”

“Warm. Bundled up.” I want to forget how he looked down at that box. How

a father held his son once and once again 34 years later. I want to forget this.

Just weeks ago I was sitting across the table at a local bakery in southern

Illinois meeting with my grief therapist. It was our last meeting before returning

to Korea. “Remember- you don’t have to be the keeper of all memories,” she said.

“I think you’re trying to be there for Gareth- for his family- by taking careful note

of everything, everything that happened. Everything you saw, felt, experienced.

You have assigned yourself the duty of keeping careful record of everything.”

“One day,” she told me, “you will give yourself permission to not remember it

all. Not see it all in your mind in such great detail.” I want this. I want to forget.

Day 210: What I Want to Remember

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. What do I want to remember? What do I want to forget? And what I need to write today is of the sweetness. What I want to remember. Because, truthfully, what I want to forget has been keeping me up lately. So, let's go gently into the love.

September 26, 2014

I want the gatekeepers of memory to be

kinder. To open the doors and escort out

the dark. To imprison the light. I want to

remember only the light. I want to walk

in the chambers of my mind, placing my

hand on the handle of any door, and not

fear what is on the other side. Even more,

I want the doors to blow open as I walk

past- each one- blow open, and I want to

smile when I look inside. Here, in this

room, we are side by side on the bed, my

left hand clasped in his right. I want to

look into this room and I want to remember.

I want to not be crippled by a memory,

knocked down. Breath stolen. I want to

look in and feel my chest stir. To stand at the

doorway for awhile and take it all in. Step in,

perhaps, for a better look. I want to see our

feet, having found each other, taking part in
their own discussion, quite independent from
the thoughts we’re exploring. The thoughts

we’re sharing. I want to remember this. I

want to remember how we could lie there

for hours and do nothing at all but let our

hands be held and our feet explore. I want

to remember the hours spent with warm

limbs and warm lips and warm hearts and-

oh, I want so much to remember the warmth

of that little divot near his collarbone. I want

to remember how smooth the skin was there

and how I could feel his heartbeat if my finger

was still. I want to remember the tiny peach

fuzz hair on his earlobes and the small scar on

his hand. I want to remember how each time

I’d place my palms flat on his face it would

take his breath away. I want to remember this. 

I want to remember the sound of his voice-

reading “American Gods” to me over a skype

call late at night. Or a poem he’d written for

me across a table in our favorite café. I want

to remember the sound of his voice near my

ear as we stood on that hill, under that full

moon, as he recited “Moon of Mountains.” I

want to remember how sometimes the sound

of his voice and what he said could make my

legs lose their power to hold me up. I want

to remember what it was to lose my balance.

To be drunk with love. I want to remember

the feeling of falling. And I want to remember

being caught. Being caught up in his jacket like

a baby or an animal. I want to remember how

he would arrive at my door mid-winter, how I

would unzip his coat and crawl in. I want to

remember the chill of his face under my lips

and how I would tell him he smelled like Christmas.

I want to remember my hand on his leg when

we drove. I want to remember winding through

country roads in Korea, bright green rice fields

and India ink hills in every direction. I want to

remember the way he’d fall asleep on longer

drives and how I’d steal glances of his settled

state as my sleep-dappled passenger. I want

to remember his moments of peace. Of stillness.

Of holding and being held. Of laughter so

contagious I’d press the replay again and again.

I want to remember dancing in the kitchen,

bathing on the rooftop, surprising one another

with gifts, and leaving notes. I want to remember

mid-day phone calls and surprise text-messages.

I want to remember the site of him, stark

naked, back to me, standing at the kitchen

sink washing out our tea mugs.  I want to

remember him looking back, slapping his

backside and saying, “Are you looking at my
bum? Quit looking at my bum, you bum-looker!

That’s rude!” I want to remember how this

made me laugh until I cried. I want to remember

how he delighted in making me laugh. How

intoxicated he was by my joy. I want to remember

seeing him act- how he’d burst onto the stage

with such intensity. How he’d sing in a norebang

with such intensity. How he’d plow through

a crowded subway area with such intensity.

I want to remember his intensity. But I also

want to remember his softness. I want to

remember this: sitting on the back of his

motorbike pressed up against the warmth

of his back. I want to remember how he’d

ride with one hand on the bike handle, the

other reaching back for my leg. I want to

remember how he was always reaching for

me. I want to remember writing together,

speaking the same language. I want to remember

collaborative efforts and how proud we were

of each piece we birthed. I want to remember

being the proud parents of words joined together

on the page. I want to remember trusting him

with my words, and being the you of his words.

I want to remember You Are the You of My Words.

I want to remember every word of every line

in every poem he wrote for me. I want to exist

there in those words written by someone who

truly saw all of me and loved what he saw. I

want to remember meeting his coworkers,

his parents, his friends back at home. I want

to remember walking out of that party or

hanging up that skype call and seeing him,

grinning from ear to ear. I want to remember

how he told me he was proud to be seen with me.

Proud to be with me. I want to remember how

he thought I gave him “street cred” with his

friends and family, and how funny I thought

that was. I want to remember the feeling of

being with someone who was immensely proud

to be with me. And I want to remember feeling

incredibly lucky. Lucky to have found, quite

by accident, this man walking through the

crowded streets of my tiny town. Lucky to

have bumped into him on the corner of

that market place and invited him to help

me shop for slippers for my school. I want

to remember going home the night that

I met him and telling God, “Look here, I

just want to be clear that I have no intentions

of dating anyone while I’ve over here in

Korea. So…just…you know…I don’t know

what you have going on with this guy, but

I’m not interested. In any plan you might

have. Just want to make that clear. So…ok.”

And I want to remember how God laughed

at me then. How God laughed the way a

parent would laugh at seeing their child balk

at something that’s good for them. I want

to remember. I want to remember how God

kissed me on the head that night and said,

“It’s ok, Bridget. You don’t have to worry one

bit. I’ve got Gareth. And I’ve got you. And

you’re ready for something absolutely magical.”