Elegy on the wall: a re-post

Here is a piece that I wrote September 11, 2006. We lived in a cottage in Nairobi. We were thinner then. The children were babies and didn't know words yet. There were more parties, and we had, perhaps, a slightly better grasp on what this world is all about.

There are few things as gut-wrenching as the sound of M’s car engine starting up in the driveway on a Monday night. Flights to Europe leave around 10pm, so the evening ritual starts out as usual―the dinner hour’s fluster and mayhem, complete with its little irritations and joys. The snapping, the singing, the boiling peas and closing doors, tea for the guards, turning on lights, food for the girl, food for the baby, bathing the baby, getting little arms and legs into little pajamas… But then, this: the packed bag by the door, the countless checking of passport, cell phone, air ticket and cash. Many, many goodbyes and kisses to the babies and checking the passport again and checking the… Finally, Just Go! I say, unable to stand the separation anxiety another moment. And he is gone.

As I enter the hallway to take the babe to bed, the car starts up in the driveway and my heart breaks and sort of spills over. Alone, with babies. There will be twice as much work, and half as much fun. The burden of responsibility for these little lives is suddenly heavy, coupled with the horrible thought… & what if, this time, he doesn’t come home? The world is a treacherous, unpredictable place suddenly, as his car pulls out of the driveway. Even quaint Geneva, where he’ll be this week, feels vulnerable to catastrophe.

This is on a day we now associate with loss, and so it’s not surprising that my separation anxiety is tinged with fear. By the time I’ve reached the bedroom, however, I’m recomposed. The clock has started the countdown for M’s return. I start to sketch a mental list of the week’s tasks. I try to put the worst fears out of my mind. And we march on.

Among the commotion before he left, M. had marked the girl’s height on the wall, writing the date (11 September 2006) next to the line he drew at the top of her head. We marveled that she has grown 1.5 inches since the last measurement four months ago. My God, I had thought, they grow so fast.

M. left. I put the baby to bed and when I returned the girl was feeling rather accomplished. She was still holding the pen in her hand, standing back from the wall to admire. The wall, just moments before a seamless pale orange, was covered with the graceful, effortless lines of, say, Helen Frankenthaler―or maybe the first gestures of a Navajo sand painting (whose aim, after all, is to restore balance and harmony). The lines tapered off to the right into lovely, undulating arcs and spirals―ribbons floating against a late summer sky; an unfettered script across desert sand; or maybe a poem, written by someone who doesn’t know words yet, explaining what this world is all about.

The above image is Helen Frankenthaler's "Gateway" 1988.

Comments

[Bihari]

I just found your blog (Chuck's sister here)and dammit, now I won't get anything done until I read all your archives. I don't know what to effuse over first--your immaculate prose, your dead-on evocation of the forlorn-ness of parenting small children alone, your site design, or your Kenyan life in general, because my word, you are so cool! Am just going to settle for drinking wine and working myself into conniptions of envy while I read from my kitchen in--brace yourself--Iowa. Where I have a minivan.

Or perhaps I'll zoom over and put you on my blogroll first.

[savtadotty]

Bihari sent me. I'm staying.

[Lala]

Me too. I love your style(writing) even though the only thing we have in common is motherhood. Give us more please.