I picked up my old barn jacket this morning to put it on as I dashed out the door to work. Wide-wale corduroy, a faded dark blue, no wales left in the rear of the elbows or the lower back, pearled and flattened sheepskin lining. I realized as I attempted to button it, that two of the buttons were missing. It's far too ratty and worn for me to be wearing or to even repair, but I can't seem to find a new one that fits like it fits, or keeps me warm and somehow safe. That safe sentiment is an erroneous one, because a jacket alone cannot make a body safe and this one has not really not done its job over the past two years I've had it. I've gone from near penury to bankruptcy, brown hair to starting to silver, a margin of victory to margins of defeat as measured by a parent's successes with a child, and I've approached death again with the rapid decline and death of my remaining sister. The old jacket has seen a lot.
The buttons were on the floor, their four button holes completely nibbled away by one of the pug-a-pom puppies in my household. A pup had succeeded in somehow wresting the button off of the coat cleanly, without tearing the fabric, and without shattering the outside circle of the plastic faux Mother-of-Pearl. I'm left with a centerless ring of an indefinable, now-unfunctioning nature.
| Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.
|
Random as I am, the sight, or rather, the black hole, or the missing four holes in the center, started me on a curious mental journey on how buttons are attached to coats, and how rings are attached to Saturn. Some would say it's gravity, some would call out the thread. Buttons can be rings, attached to the core of cloth, circular holes threaded together with circular loops of thread repeated over and over. When you cut the core out, the ring of the button is left and the button is no longer a button ...is no longer useful to the cloth.
And the rings of Saturn would be just rocks, if the planet disappears. No swirling fast-traveling dozens of miles-wide layers of debris moving around a core planet, defined by it and defining that planet. Just rocks.
The loss of my remaining sister was one year ago...yesterday. A year ago yesterday (has it been that long, really?), a button hole was removed from the button, a chunk of a ring around Saturn flew off in the vacuum, or perhaps she was a part of the core of the planet Saturn, depending on how I choose to define that loss on a given day. She is now a lost thread to our shared past, our essential gravitational pull towards the core of a family, a family that once was, is dissipating because of time, disease, disenchantment, death.
| Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!
|
There were four of us once, spread apart over three separate generations. My oldest sister, gone these 34 years. Last year, sister Sharon, gone April 27, 2007, at the age of sixty-eight. Esophageal cancer, diagnosed the end of March, 2007 as late stage four, major organ failure, no chance, get your affairs in order, dream your last living dreams, say the words you need to say to the ones you love (and of course, there was no time, was there?), and eat your last meal. These were the words of the oncologist that second and final meeting before he sent us on our way. They were the right words, but right has no meaning when you are told you are terminal. Fair has no meaning. And suddenly, the only definition of time that matters is the one that has to do with how long, or short, time is.
Two button holes remaining – my brother and I – now seem threaded together by the merest wisp of spun gossamer. We rarely talk now, though we are full siblings. Too many deaths in five years perhaps. I am not like him, and then I am just exactly like him, and this confusion alone causes our separate rings to spin in opposite directions around a wobbly planet, the core remnants of a family, a core that seems to be fading and shrinking.
I have not become, nor is it likely that I will ever become, enough of a core planet myself for substantial rings to develop. The wales of my corduroy are mighty weary and threadbare.
| The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!
The towns in Saturn are decayed,
And melancholy Spectres throng them;--
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss,
With joy I sail among them.
|
I'll go tomorrow and find more buttons to attach, and buy stronger thread. And maybe some likely cloth to patch the elbows and back of the coat. Perhaps some dark blue cotton denim-like cloth, patterned with moons and stars, and a planet or two. I'll hang it up carefully when I get home, from now on. There are some things old and worn, cherished and familiar, safe or not, that should be maintained.
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Here is the hosting schedule put together by Dem in the Heart of Texas, for the next little bit. If you'd like to host, drop me or Dem a line or post a reply to the tip-jar below.
May 5 - filled by GreenMtnState
May 12 - filled by Dem in the Heart of Texas
May 19 - filled by x
May 26 - filled by bigjacbigjacbigjac
June 1 - filled by digitalmuse
June 8
June 15 - filled by TrueBlueMajority
June 22
June 29
and on...
Here is a link to all the previous Grieving Room diaries.
(excerpts from Wordsworth, The Tale of Peter Bell)