I will probably be posting on Thursday or Friday for Memorial Day. Will be posting on Tuesday; wouldn’t miss 5/31 in blogland for anything. But for now I am drained and might even watch American Idol, no–can’t do…
I’m not big on cemeteries. We would go for funerals and unveilings, when the headstone was put in, and my dad would greet each relative and former resident of the town his parents came from who were now residing at Mount Hebron as if they were alive. But he too didn’t believe in going on anniversaries or traditional holidays.
I believe that a person’s spirit resides in the places that they most loved. For my father that would be the city. For my mother that would be anyplace my father wanted to be.
My sister and I found a Mother’s Day card he made for our mother when we were very very young. He cut it paper into the shape of a heart and on the cover put a small piece of paper that was shaped like a clock. On top of that, he made two hour hands. One was over writing that said “Paris,” and the other over “Cairo.”
When I was four it must have seemed as if it were a pipe dream to my parents. “Cairo” must have felt as if it were an exotic fantasy that was totally beyond reach. They had no idea that within the next decade they were to begin journeys that would take them even further to more exotic worlds than they had dared dreamed.
I want to remember my parents as the adventurous romantics they were.
I do find it more than a bit ironic that the city my father so loved has become bittersweet for me as I fight to separate my mom’s death from the event that preceded it a month earlier and from which most people I know have never really gotten over.
Then there is that voice in me that believes that a large part of a persons spirit belongs in the last place you saw him conscious and talking. I so hope that’s not true as the last place that I saw my dad in, was Bloomingdale’s 59th Street, and it’s not on my top hundred places to visit, or even to shop in.