Nostalgia

Part of missing somebody intensely, for me, is the pain of not being able to see her little gestures any longer. That little shake of the head, eyebrow raised, as a comment on something she finds absurd. The grace of her fingers, long and slender, as she plays the banjo. The way she sits cross-legged on a bed, the way she wrapped her hand around mine as we walked the streets, the little snores that come from her in the night. The way she cuts her food; or how she chooses clothes in the shops along Eighth Street. And, her interest in what I choose for her there.

(Our next reunion, should it occur, may well be in New York.)

The way she emitted the softest of "yea's" when she got her new car. The smile and the inevitable "yum" when she spied candy or ice cream I'd brought her. The way she gets excited by going out to the movies, and how she shakes her head wildly while dancing. The way she says "night, night" when signing off a phone call late in the evening. The way she told me goodnight in email (a rarity) from Biloxi on January 9th: "Goodnight, sweet man. I love you..."

I am sorry to say I even like the way she smokes -- a nasty habit -- and one I tried to convince my father stop after the Surgeon General's famous report every boomer remembers. The way she snuggled next to me when cold, the smart-ass comments she makes on almost any occasion. I also love the sound of her laughing out loud, like she did when I took her to "Team America," or when she watched South Park or The Daily Show.

The way she makes her bed, which is now in my apartment, reminding me every night that she is *not* here. The way, when packing for our trips to Mexico and Hawaii, she would pour shampoo and conditioner from big bottles into smaller bottles, carefully labeled. The labels she made for my dishwasher, so the kids would know when dishes were to be unloaded or left alone.

The items she picked out when she was first leaving for Mississippi, so careful in her planning. The odd, embarassed grin on her face when she returned ten days later, carrying secrets that would hurt me. Even though I sensed this at the time, I appreciated her odd new look for the gesture it was, and the emotional honesty behind it.

She'd had experiences I couldn't appreciate; but, much more importantly -- she'd figured out that the situation down there post-Katrina was so horribly compelling that she would just have to be going back, even though her first stint, with the Red Cross, had not suited her purposes at all. That's when she first picked up smoking again, down there in disaster's wake, living at a shelter wedged between two army bases.

I could go on and on, but to do so only would be satisfying to me, not any other reader, nor would she want me to. But, what is it we fall in love with in others, if not their unique grace as they move through this confusing, painful life?

In my home, there are concrete reminders in every room. The sound of her banjo lingers; the foods she bought have not all been eaten, toiletries and bedding are here and there, some of her clothes and books and files. The drawing she made of my youngest daughter. Presents she bought the kids, and me.

Her presence lingers, day after day, and night after night. To me, it is precious -- confirmation that my memories are based in fact, and that I am not crazy (at least in this regard) for imagining things that did not occur. We indeed breathed the same air.

Romantic love is an experience not every human has. Some people cannot love, for various reasons. Literature, psychology, folk wisdom all warn against love; that it hurts with an exquisite pain that endures long after the pleasure is gone. The final irony of love, and love lost, is we have to give ourselves away to find it, and then we must recover ourselves to move on, or to even find a reason to go on, alone.

I know I'm an incurable romantic, something of a packrat, and given to obsessing over details. I also know my memory is crystal clear on one level--that which Van Gogh advised: "Paint the gesture, not the hand."