3:17 A.M.

The dinosaur was of clear glass, and I’d placed the concert tickets in its belly for safe keeping. The unfolding plot was intriguing, and I fought to pursue it. Why did I think the dinosaur was secure?  What concert were we planning to see? Were the tickets that valuable? But the pain persisted, increasingly agonizing. Ignore it!  Ignore it! But it could not be denied, and I was wrenched from sleep. I stole a squinty, one-eyed glance at the clock. 3:17. What is it with my bladder and 3:17?

I padded to the bathroom to pee, then stood at the bathroom window, nose pressed to the cold glass to better see the full moon.  Bathed in light, the roof seemed snow-covered, and the yard and woods beyond were a tracery of radiance, inky-black shadows, and bare limbs. A jet trail, illuminated - stark, straight, and startling - cut a path among pinprick stars. As I always do when the 3:17 call comes, I scanned the scene hoping to spot a bear, dismissed the stump that masquerades as such, and decided the serene beauty of my night visit was worth the dream interruption. 

 

Back to bed. 

 

Sound asleep still, Dave breathed evenly, stirring not at all as I snuggled into bed and sighed deeply. Ahhh. Cozy flannel sheets, soft blankets, a warm quilt, and my Honey beside me. I nestled in, eyes closed, smiling at my comfort and good fortune to be so ensconced. 

 

Apparently, comfy or not, I was no longer tired. Ruminations intruded. And hey, why not guilt?  That’s always a sure bet for the middle of the night. Why do I have all this when others have so little? Why do I have the security of this house, this good man, this comfortable bed?

 

 Lea. Stop. Nothing to be done about that now.  Empty your mind.

 

Oh yeah, like that’s gonna happen. But I gave it a shot. On my command, blank mental screen. Inhale.  Exhale. Keep it blank.  Doing it! Deeeep breath.  Deeeep breath, not to be taken for granted in the age of Covid. I took another deepest of deep breaths for the sheer joy of it and because I could. Imagine the horror of being on a ventilator.  Thank God I can breathe! Thank you God for healthy lungs! Thank you for the health and safety of my Dave, kids and grandkids. Thank you for my sisters and friends! For the beauty of your world and my fellow creatures… 

 

In White Christmas, Bing Crosby crooned about counting blessings to fall asleep, but it wasn’t working for me. Never seems to. Blessings, guilt, and pleading prayers seem to go hand in hand in a stroll toward troubling thoughts. Like trickling waters in a tidal surge, seeking and spilling into even the tiniest crevice, Covid worries tumble to Trump’s maneuverings, his machinations morph into a chessboard, which triggers disquieting images from the Queen’s Gambit. Sigh. Empty your mind indeed.

 

But on some nights, like that night, associations spark inspiration: must-do’s remembered, quandaries resolved, awkward conversations worked through, and snippets of sentences that might lead to a piece scribbled on the pad on my bedside table. So, when the clock hands marked 4:09, I’d made my peace with it. I hoped my scrawl would be relatively legible in the morning, took another quick bathroom run, and tucked back into bed to give sleep another try. 

 

P.S. You were up too?  Shoulda called!

 

 

Message Received

The robotic voice of our message machine intoned that we had only two minutes and 53 seconds of space remaining. It was time to review and delete, but this would not be simple, for our machine is the repository of treasured voices now lost to us. Among blithe reminders of appointments, easy to trash, are what were once mundane check-ins, now rendered poignant and precious. In the fourth saved message, Mom is characteristically chipper as she ends with, “We’ll chat tomorrow!” How I wish that could be. I tear up every time I re-play it.  

 

Fourteenth in the queue, Dave’s brother’s voice is strong as he sings a line from “On the Road Again” and then swings into the birthday song with Deb, recorded as they drove to our house last April to drop off my gift. It seems ages since Steve’s voice was that exuberant and robust, but it was barely seven months ago.  

 

Given that Ma was 95, we knew to hold onto several taped birthday songs, although Dave used to chafe with annoyance at the childish endearment when his mother warbled, “Happy Birthday, my sweet baby.”   We also saved the love she wished our way on Valentine’s Day, which now seems a portent as she continues to send her love from the Other Side in the form of a heart. 

 

The first one appeared the day after she died. I’d taken my morning shower, toweled off while standing on the navy blue bath mat, and stepped aside to pick it up and replace it on its rack. And there it was: a heart in the damp imprint on the mat.  It wasn’t sort-of-a-heart; it was a perfect heart. And after I took a picture, I tried to replicate it, standing this way and that, heels together, heels apart, but I couldn’t readily re-create that precise Valentine shape. 

 

“Love you too, Ma,” I said.

A week later, Dave and I were awash in a welter of bins and boxes as we worked to empty Ma’s small apartment within the available two-week window. Like me, Ma was a fan of both Christmas and teddy bears. She had a lot of teddy bears, and I was guilty of giving her many of those that filled the bins in her storage area and occupied her windowsills, deacon’s bench, and shelves. 

 

I’d emptied one large bin marked “CHRISTMAS,” stuffing black garbage bags destined for Goodwill with assorted angels, Santas, and yes, teddy bears. I left a mid-sized fake fir tree by her front door to carry out on its own as it would take up too much room in a bag or box.  I passed by the tree numerous times over the course of a week as I went back and forth from the apartment with loads for the dumpster or my car.  

 

In the final days, I took a picture of the tree and sent it to Casey along with the text, “Want it?” 

 

“Sure!” she responded, so I took the tree to my car and wedged it in the back seat.  But wait. What was that? A bit of red I’d not noticed before nestled within the branches. Ignoring the prickle of simulated pine needles, I worked my fingers between the limbs and extricated a tiny teddy bear in red pajamas with a miniscule heart pendant at his throat. Some might say I’d just missed it all the times I’d passed, and maybe that’s true, but the tug in my chest let me know it was from her. “Love you too, Ma,” I whispered. 

When someone passes to the Other Side, we yearn to know they’re okay. When my parents died, I wanted them to find each other in some glorious Beyond, but when their deaths were fresh, I wanted to know they were still around; that they were here with me.  My father, in particular, was true to character in sending clear communications, and when Steve left us in September, we were on alert, looking for signs, not ready to let him go. 

 

Last summer, Steve gave us a Rose of Sharon sapling, offspring of the abundant bush at his home. It remained in a pot by our back door through fall and winter; we never got around to planting it.  Finally, in late spring, Dave transferred it to the ground.  It lived, but seemed stagnant, neither growing nor sprouting leaves. The day Steve died, Dave came to me wide-eyed. “Come look!” he said. He led me to the edge of the yard and pointed. On its spindly trunk, the plant had sent forth, finally, one lone blossom. “It’s the Rose of Steve,” said Dave. And so we will always call it. 

 

Deb, Steve’s wife, also searches for signs. Over the past month, a fox has been a regular visitor, lingering beneath the bird feeders, stalking squirrels, and trotting across the lawn between Steve and Deb’s house and their barn. “I call him ‘Sly’,” said Deb. Sly was Steve’s nickname in college, as fitting for a handsome red fox as it was for that handsome young man.

 

Dave’s bathroom looks out over our backyard. It was late September and the leaves had just begun to fall.  “Check it out,” Dave called to me as he stared out the window after his shower. I followed his gaze and saw a heart in the middle of the yard. I felt that tug in my chest and knew Dave felt it too. It was a leaf, but our recognition let us know it was from Ma.     

 

Be it a text, letter, phone call, or … a leaf, rose, bear, fox, or damp imprint, a message sent is as commonplace as the means chosen until the receiving heart tugs in answer.

 

Love you too, Steve and Ma. 

 

  

  

Christmas Catalogue Connection

Covid might have derailed holiday plans and traditions, but Christmas nostalgia is deeply ingrained, with triggers as varied as the scent of cinnamon, carols playing on Sonos, Dickens on my bedside table, and the L.L. Bean catalogue appearing in the mail.

 

With a cup of tea in hand and a Bean’s catalogue to browse, it could be any decade from my past: me in a voluminous, unflattering Lanz nightgown, Mom and Dad reading by the fire in Vermont in the seventies, or, in the eighties, my kids in their pajamas, playing with their Transformers and Cabbage Patch Kids. L.L. Bean is consistent, and relatively unmoved by trends. Models smile rather than pout, and stride through snow in sturdy boots and puffy parkas without that awkward hand-on-cocked-hip pose favored in most fashion magazines. L.L. Bean’s catalogue is colorful, familiar, and comforting. 

 

Not long ago, I called the company’s 1-800 line to order some gifts, and a woman answered the phone.  She introduced herself and asked how she could help me.  I had questions about sizing, fabrics, and colors, and she was patient and friendly. I must’ve been feeling raw that day, for her kindness touched some deep chord, and I was inordinately grateful for her gentle voice. 

 

“Can I tell you something?” I said. “You have no idea what it means to have a real person, a nice person, answer the phone.” 

 

I confess, I choked up a bit… I know. It’s pathetic, but so it was.  “Everything now is rushed and impersonal, all about business and money. It means something to have a human connection. Please let the company know how important that is, and how much I appreciated talking to you. ”

 

She was quiet for a minute, then said, “Just this morning, I left home for work and thought, ‘Here I go; off to change the world selling slippers and sweaters. I felt sheepish about my job. But maybe the way I do it does make a difference in someone’s day. So, thank you for saying that.” 

 

Again, I assured her it did, and we signed off with warm wishes for the holidays. 

 

Dave has all the flannel shirts he’ll ever need, and my signature Bean’s rubber-soled boots have held up over the years as advertised. We already have snowshoes, quilts, towels, and turtlenecks, but still, I flip through the catalogue, enjoying the ride: evergreen wreaths, berry-red candles, families in matching plaid PJ’s, and precious Labrador puppies peeking from canvas tote bags. It’s a relief in this time of turmoil, loss, and disease to give myself over to the fantasy of L.L. Bean world and pretend that it is 2020 that is the illusion. 

 

An added note: My husband, Dave, routinely asks for a manager in order to compliment an employee when someone has been helpful. They certainly hear the complaints, but not always the good things, and THAT can make someone’s day.