Another Country – Memory to Light, Day 12

Santa Barbara is my place to heal. There’s something womb-like about it. There are islands off the coast, mountains lining it. And when the sun hits the ocean, it bounces a pinky-yellow haze onto the mountain faces. It’s amniotic. Hypnotic. The stillness here is a balm. I have returned more than once to restore. I am here now, to make space for this writing journey.

Today I wondered what to write. I sifted through memories, and kept landing on one I didn’t know had direct relation to my project. But I promised myself that I would listen to intuition and write the story that wants to be told each day. When I questioned it, I heard my sister-friend’s voice in my head. She dares me sometimes, and then says, in the most loving of ways, “If you don’t trust you, trust me.”

Surfacing

I did. And trusted intuition. And as I began to introduce the story, I remembered that I left this town under some very sad circumstances. And that while this town is my restorative retreat, there is a healing itself that needs to take place here, now that I am back for a short time, and exploring grief.

I used to live here. I used to love here. The two memories that follow bring that sadness to the surface, to meet, feel, thank, and continue on the journey.

The Car

PEMA: We’re here to– Do you have a– What were we telling them?

KURT: That we, uh, that…

KHAN is listening intently in the huddle we created, waiting for one of us to finish a sentence.

KURT: Our friend and colleague parked his car here before Christmas and then died in a plane crash and we’re here to pick up his car.

KHAN blanches.

KHAN: I’m, my gosh, I’m–

We are blocks away from LAX. In KHAN’s eyes, you can see him calculating, trying to recall news briefs, flipping through imaginary etiquette books, while we all stand in this circle in the parking garage wondering what to do next.

At the counter, I pull out the death certificate from my notebook. I pull out my ID.

The longer I wait for the people to find the key, to type in the date Michael parked, to find the car in the lot, to call each other on the intercom and disappear and reappear and give me more forms to fill out, the more closed-in my vision gets. My breath is shallower by the moment and my fuse is short. I see only a wall of keys on the valet board behind the counter. The very large lips of the young woman helping me. The piercing in the side of her lip, like a metallic beauty mark. The people on either side of her looking forlorn and unsure of what to say or do. I am stoic against the tears that want to come, in waves.

I get the keys. Valets have pulled the car out front. Kurt and I hug. We cry. I get in.

How do I start it?? The radio comes on with the car and plays a commercial of a new show Michael invested in. I get out and tell Kurt the synchronicity. I go back to the Mini, and I can’t figure out how to adjust the seat or see the odometer or open the windows. My brain is too fogged from the black interior, the tears on the reverse slide down the back of my throat, the impossibility of mental focus on these simplest of mechanics to get me out of this garage.

I am finally out, I pull into the sunlight. And immediately I drive to the side of the road. The tears are heavy and my breath is jagged. Fucker. Jerk. Dammit. This is *not* my drive. This is his view and his scent. The performance hum under my ass and my feet is HIS ride, his familiarity.

The wheel under my hands is glossy wood and a paper-smooth leather. Its contours cradle my grip. There is life here all around me and under me. I am breathing it and applying myself to it, and moving with it.

I drive fast. Fast in his fast little car. Change the radio when I hear music he wouldn’t like. Dance wildly in the driver’s seat. Absorb the man in his absence.

(written and originally published on an earlier version of my blog, December 30, 2007)

Another Country

I sat on the Mission steps tonight. Conquerers always get the best real estate. Just before sunset. Cloud cap over the sky. Distant ocean. White plaster and red tile roofs of homes in the foreground, and the main thoroughfare moving with cars. A few tourists.

I watched the cars head toward home in the twilight. And in them imagined people of another country. I am the tourist. In their land. Watching their way of life, imagining their foreign language thoughts as they plan dinner, mull over the day, look forward to seeing their kids. A habit I know but at present am set abroad from.

I go home to cook dinner for myself for the first time since before Christmas. Conversations outside of work are still hard to focus on; language goes all watery before they’re through. Grief is another country.

(written and originally published on an earlier version of my blog, January 3, 2008)

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(You can read all of the Memory to Light stories in order on the side bar -–>)

Thanks for reading Day 12 of “Memory to Light: 31 Days of Stories, August 11 – September 11, 2011.” It is an exercise in writing about loss, for the purpose of letting grief wake, live, and pass through the system. Grief is transformation. Story is transformation. Our world could use a some wakeful transformation right now. Take a peek at the introductory post for the full story of what we’re up to.

Join me

Consider this project an online story circle. Read a story that moves you. Write your own on your blog. Link it to the comments below, so we can read your piece. If you don’t have a blog, write your story in the comments.

Let your memories live. Let small corners of your grief breathe. Let your loss be swept into the collective experience of people sharing, witnessing, and letting be.

 

Tagged as: 9/11, Grief, Loss, Memory, Memory to Light, Santa Barbara, Transformation, Writing