Song and Dance

Wings in the Afternoon 

If I were a dancer, I would dance with great passion.  Indian style has certain appeal - bending forward, moving with the rhythum of the drumbeats, with echoing war whoops - a childlike tapping over the mouth to sound more, oh, fearsome and war-like, with feathers flying. The play of children, in this case, resulted from the threat that if we didn't behave ourselves, we would be given to the indians.  This thought was especially provoking when we were driving by the reservation on the long but interesting trip which included a ride on the ferry, to visit an old friend of Dad's, Franz Vinion.

If I were a a bird, I would be an eagle, elusive and aloof -  bombing directly towards the earth at full tilt, beak first with focused eye, seeking relief from hunger.  The majestic bird was seldom seen, but as an emblem of our country, was a mysterious creature with super powers that sparked my imagination, and proud patriotism welling up, filled my heart.

 If I sang, I would sing in the shower with the water pouring over my face to wash away the tears and letting the water bubble into my mouth, muffling the sobs that rack my body, before composing myself with difficulty, and after that momentary distress, I would lather up with forced calm.  And if I was a star, I would march onto the stage and take charge of the whole mess, throwing all the musicians off the stage who think the notes have to be more perfect than passionate.  I’d pour out my soul for the loss; for time that passed into eternity right under my nose while there was nothing I could do about it.

I would weep right there in front of everyone, doubled over with pain.  The audience would never know the truth.  They would think it was an act, but the heart broken in so many directions and pieces, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put together again. 

Then, abruptly, I would stop in the middle of it all, and I would look sadly at all the pieces and then pick up a dustpan and sweep them up like shattered glass, and slowly let them slide from the blue plastic scoop, lodging deeply into the garbage can with a quiet swoosh.   I would lift the bag out of the container and tie up the ends.  I would take it outside to the receptacle where, after inserting the bag, I would close the lid and secure the latch, decisive and symbolic.

Returning to the house, I would go on as if nothing had ever happened, mechanically washing up the dishes, as if my heart had never been in anguish, as if the songs that I sang were untrue, as if that hollow, empty place in my chest was not the life of me being ripped to shreds, as if my silent, gasping sobs really were depositing tears into the scented, soapy water of the sink where I am helplessly leaning, sapped of strength.  I would empty the dishwasher, absentmindedly place the silverware in the proper spaces, feeling like I'm the one being stomped underfoot by Indian war dances.  Bruised, broken, sad and confused. I would search on for a reason why.

For one moment when the music ends I would stand still, but the moment would pass and the audience would turn away, not knowing that I, bereft but blocking an escaping sob with the back of my hand, had embraced every tear they have shed as my own.  Every loss, each heart with a missing piece could have taken some of mine to make it’s own whole again, so what was left was just a jumble of patches and stitches and gauze bandages, the work of a child who practices medicine of the candy-pill style on a more-or-less sterile stuffed bear, using, to my mind, the all too real hospital toys -  syringes, a  pink medical pitcher and a surgical tray.

I am like the child that can’t bear to part with a filthy, ragged toy, but having no mother to sew it together, he tries to patch it himself.  Or maybe his mother tried, but the toy is so  loved and worn that there is hardly enough to salvage.  I wonder if maybe the mother's heart was broken in two as well, long ago.

Every so often, I remember a moment when she stood there in the cafeteria area of the Ronald McDonald house, a certain radiant child, my niece who although facing me, seemed to be unaware of my presence.  She was in the process of dying - but in those moments, completely and fully joyous, a tiny Master of Ceremonies at play.  It would have been difficult to believe she was in the fight of her life, because even though she was old before her time, not even four years in age, she was so vibrantly active.  Her feet were braced in a wide stance and she was surrounded with several running children.  In her simple homemade dress, a gift from a friend, her eyes sparkled with fun and laughter. As she tried to figure out how to run in two directions at once she seemed suspended, momentarily in a sort of quiet stillness, a moment in space.

Salted tears sting with memories.  Aware that acrid moisture is squeezing out from between the outer edges of my eyelids,  I embrace the familiar picture again, surprised it can still make me cry.  I could not tell her what she meant to me before she went on.  She, however, accepted that it was time to go, when I did not.  Perhaps she knew and put on one last show for me, in which she played the main part.  Perhaps she was just doing what children do - living each moment fully, embracing life; setting aside her pain, the suffering - none of it disturbing this event even for a moment.

I learned that God wins, not I.  Score: God 1, Me 0. Or is my score zero?  I learned that song was right - the heart truly cannot forget something like that.  The intensity of the pain waxes and wanes, at times feeling as if it is slapping me up against the side of the head just to make sure I remember.  I learned that allowing my heart to care introduces harshness, feelings that seem on the verge of violent.  Angrily, I sort of wish it was okay to break something.  Defiantly, I remember wise counsel and instead allow the TLC of friends' to comfort me and soothe the ache.

Life does go on, but in a new way.  I will be forever horrified by the outrage of childhood cancer and its ability to separate best friends.  My heart has been exposed so I have a new reality.  I am part of a select group now, those who have a gossamer connection to a beautiful, new world, where there are things to see; things too wonderful, so wonderful we would never look back. 

Cloud Bank

Cranky Goose

Getting my Geese in a Row