Thirteen Ways of Looking at Twilight
2
Of course I knew it was the first of the month, and I didn’t even get up when I heard the three polite raps on the door—I just called out “Door’s open!” and waited.
He was beginning to feel more like an old friend, re-remembered each time, than a visitor, in spite of the nature of his call. He entered and changed the climate of the room.
“Can it really be the first of the month?” I feigned.
“To the day,” the visitor smiled.
“Well, take a load off.”
“Thank you,” he said, and sat down on the worn sofa facing me. “How’s your heart?”
“Heart’s okay, I guess,” I said. “Brain, I don’t know.”
“A season for everything,” he said.
“I’ve heard that.”
He smiled. He had a—no other way to put it—glow about him—maybe metaphorical but remembered as a quality of light. And memory always has the last word. That he was pure love—kind, compassionate, a devoted listener—was a certainty. Very easy on the eye as well—but not so much handsome as distinctive in a way that to meet him once was to know him forever.
Yes, radiant like a Greek god. One of the good ones anyway, like Apollo or Athena. Not a blowhard like Zeus or Poseidon. Why are the best not the most powerful—like, ever? An old conundrum, rooted in the nature of humankind.
My well-being was in his hands—I don’t know how I knew that—and he had come for a memory.
A good one. The bad ones were non-negotiable.
“Do you have something for me?” he asked.
I started the bidding low—but really, every good memory is precious, right? Sure.
“How about running into Zoot Hutchinson in Piggly Wiggly?”
He smiled, indulgently.
“I hadn’t seen him for thirty years!”
“Or thought of him.”
“Okay, my tenth grade trip to Mexico.”
He nodded slowly, a portrait of sympathy. “Look a little nearer your heart,” he suggested.
I can’t say how, but I had learned so much from him. And I knew that he knew that I knew—for God’s sake, we both knew everything—that the value of anything is created by its relinquishing. And when you offer out of love—you might say, to God—you offer big.
But how big? Woodfield Drive—three, four years old, the pecan trees, the crimson clover, my mother’s face, the smell of vinegar dyeing Easter eggs, the two girls next door—no, no, please no. Never.
“Not Mama. Daddy,” I implored.
He smiled. A season for everything. Those would come last. With the transformative moments that had created my very self. Out as with in. Piece by piece. Until this realm had gone the way of dream.
“Okay. Aunt Sarah.”
His expression changed.
“She was a beautiful soul. I loved her very much.”
“I know.”
“You can’t understand how much I hate to lose her.”
“No. I can. Sign here.”
And he produced the usual form, which I signed, having no idea what would happen if I didn’t. Knowing, in spite of myself, it would be worse.
He took his leave. More alone, I sat back in the chair, only the glow of him left. That, and nothing.
The nothing that holds something in its arms.
March 15, 2022