Waiting, Breathing

Shye is not amused. Shye is stricken; longing for hys touch, taste, smell, presence. Shye is transfixed by hys image. Shye brings hyr face to the screen and inhales, hungry for hys scent. Hyr tongue flicks across the image there, seeking hys smooth salt skin. Shye presses hyr face against the cool glass screen, aching for hys warmth. Shye breathes, sips abstractedly at hyr tea, licks the chocolate from hyr lips, and notices the fabric of hyr blouse as it moves in response to hyr arousal when shye thinks of hym. Shye, absorbed in hyr reverie, anticipates with joy the conjunction that lies just beyond this eternal moment. Waiting, fully in this moment.

The Death of the Natural Ash Blonde

Even though I remained seated, my head was bowed. The two others were standing together near the newly deceased. Their heads were bowed. The elder was in his shirt sleeves. His thick dark hair belied his seventy plus years and although his head was bowed he kept trying to catch my eye.

The other, who appeared to be a generation behind the older man was wearing a deep olive cashmere sweater over a long-sleeved white shirt. Hye was focused inward, wrapped in the memories of finer days when together with the newly deceased, hye had dared to try to conquer the world. Together the two were formidably handsome -- those on the street stepped aside and those already out of the way had gazed on with admiration or jealousy. It was always one or the other; few had felt indifferently.

I could see that hys mind was cast back to the last day they acted as a team, hye was tall and slim, well muscled, with eyes of purest azure. The deceased had been a natural ash blonde; so fair -- yet a few strands of deep auburn glinted chestnut in the sun. When hye had the deceased to cover hys back, hye had swaggered or poised hymself on the balls of hys feet as if at any moment hye might take to the air, hovering above those present. The deceased had shielded hym, in a way, from both the heat of summer, which dissipated when it met such cool confidence and the crisp cold of winter that softened when the deceased had cast that certain protection about hym.

At any rate, all of these things were true and together, had made them unstoppable. But that was then, now the newly deceased lay between the two gentlemen and the younger one had still not quite realized that the death had occurred. I could tell because hye kept talking as if life could go on forever, talking like the magical hands of the elder could rebreathe life into the corpse, somehow restiffen the fibers of being, to make the adjustment that would turn back the clock to a time when there was no question about their future together.

Now hye kept rephrasing the same question over and over as if hye thought that hye could triumph over death by reframing the request in just the right way. Each request for resuscitation by the younger was met by the gentle and fatherly tone of the elder as he patiently explained, in every way he knew, that the life had gone -- totally and forever. Death had come for a loved one; there was no way to fix the problems that had ended the deceased’s life. It was as if the fabric of life had worn thin, he said, hoping that the younger would see the futility of further efforts to change the reality of things.

I knew this was not the first time the elder had been through this. He had seen this kind of love before and understood how hard it was to accept the truth. He maintained a suitably somber stance, evidence of many years of sheparding the bereaved over and around the hurdles of loss. His voice was firm yet he spoke softly as if he was painfully aware that the reality he was trying to get the younger one to accept was going to hurt. He was as tender and frank as the dentist who says “forgive me” before the pain of a needle in your jaw pierces your consciousness.

But the younger one could just not hear what the elder was saying. As I sat and silently watched the events unfold before me, my hands busy with my crocheting, I understood why hye didn’t want to hear the truth, although my heart cried, “Just let go -- let go.” It sounds so deceptively simple, but it is a Herculean task, especially when the love runs so deep. Hye had asked me come with hym, I wondered if it was because he suspected what hye might find out and thought hye might need the support of someone who truly loved hym.

The elder was trying to catch my eye. He needed help. He was out of words that could make clear what had happened. He had no more explanations for the ravages of time and the uselessness of all of his vision and skill in any stance against them. He wanted me to help, to construct the sequence of sounds that would deliver the message to the heart and brain of the younger one. He had tried and failed. He told me so in a glance, said that he could do no more; the slight shift of his shoulders confirmed what his eyes had told me.

“Darling,” I began somewhat tentatively. I had not expected the burden of anything like this to land in my lap on that day. I knew this was a critical moment, one that would mark hys psyche -- not that it, hys psyche, was brittle or in danger of cracking or collapse. But this had been such an important relationship that I wanted to make my delivery of the news as gentle as possible. Hesitating a second, and gaining time to think by rearranging my crocheting, I finally decided that a direct approach was the only solution.

“Darling,” I began again, “The jacket can’t be fixed. It just wouldn’t stand the strain and stresses of alteration or relining.”

I took a deep breath, swallowed and waited.

“Aaaa,” hye said, “It can’t be repaired because it isn’t strong enough.”

“Yes, Darling,” I replied, “that’s right.”

“Okay,” was hys only response.

The elder tailor shot me an appreciative glance and we moved on to the next garment, a luscious velvet leopard jacket with jewel-encrusted buttons, which fared much better. We took the corpse home with us in the car and neither of us mentioned its demise. I maintained a silence about it -- willing to listen and sympathize but I didn’t want to prematurely initiate the conversation I knew would eventually be necessary. I knew hye would talk to me about it if hye needed to and apparently hye didn’t.

The next day, I suggested that we have a small ceremony for the jacket, nothing formal or fancy, we wouldn’t even have to invite anyone in for it, just a private little memorial service. “Huh?” was the response, “I’m not going to stop wearing it. I love that jacket. Besides, I can’t get rid of it,” hye said, “I don’t have another lightweight blonde summer jacket. It will have to fall apart before I get rid of it.”

So I am waiting, because one day, sometime in the future we will need to have that service. We won’t think about it until then, -- until that time when even hye will be forced to admit that the natural ash blonde is no longer suitable attire for a jack-a-dandy who wears Zegna cufflinks and has hys shirts hand made in Hong Kong. But until that day, I think, the two will remain formidably handsome.

At the feet of the Goddess

You are now at my feet and I hope You like it here. Think of it not so much as a subservient position but as a warm and safe place from which to hear the stories I have to tell. I hope You enjoy my particular and very femme perspective.


Photo by Femmenation