Celebration Beside Grief (from summer 2014)

I've always hated graduation. Long speeches delaying the gratification of hearing a name called, listening to stilted speeches. I could do without them. But under the clear sky and blazing Saturday sun I watched a handful of the kids I work with graduate. And I watched them with enthusiasm and joy and a smattering of proud tears. 

There is a reason I have a renewed fondness for graduation.

Last week we lost someone. Lost is the wrong sentiment. He was taken. He was murdered. It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t his time to go.

If you measure death in the number of headlines, the number of stranger-attended memorials, then his death was quiet. Weighed in reporters and his death seems undeserving of spectacle and broadcast grieving. His death does not evoke the wrenching of hands about gun legislation or discussions about how mental health did or did not play a role. If you measure his death in the 8 inches of newsprint space he shared with another lost life and two others shot and injured over the weekend, if you measured it like that, you could miss it.

But that is a dangerous way to measure death. 

His death will not warrant news stories beyond the weekend laundry list of shootings that already ran. Journalists will not travel to his home to ask people to share their favorite stories of him as son, or boyfriend, or father. No politicians will lament the loss of an innocent victim.

But I remember him. 

In the wake of his death, graduation was exactly right. The jubilation. The wider world just a few waiting steps away. And these students are ready for it; so eager for their “what next”. And these kids have one. They have a next thing. They could have college and jobs and marriage and kids. They have possibilities. They have nothing less than today. They already know, too well, tomorrow is not guaranteed them. 

The purple and white robes look new under the glare of the sun. The kids look jubilant the crowd ecstatic. And we need this. I need this brief celebration of as it is supposed to be.

Gone...

The last time John and I hung out was less than a month ago. He came over and we caught up on each other’s worlds for a little while. He was visibly weaker but I wouldn’t call him frail. We laughed and gossiped. We talked and foreshadowed plans of hanging out sometime soon. 

We didn’t.

I knew seeing him dead wasn’t the way I wanted to remember him, and yet I was drawn to look. As if somehow my gaze was paying homage…or maybe my own penance. How was he dead –just a wooden door separating him from me and the rest of the world? 

When our property manager unlocked the door and the police pushed it open, I was sitting on the floor just inside my own doorway, leaning against the frame and hoping that I’d hear John’s voice –raspy from the chemotherapy – fussing politely about the intrusion.

Instead, the first thing I saw was his glasses on the hardwood floor facing out as if peering through the doorway to see who was there. Just beyond his glasses he lay on his back, mouth open and eyes closed. The police officer quickly closed the door in an attempt to shield us from the body…my friend…lying there.

Our property manager averted his gaze and turned toward me- my first tears seeping from behind closed lids- he kneeled to hug me. A moment of intimacy inspired by loss.

I didn’t want to see John like that and yet I made myself see him like that. I purposely watched. I’m not sure I would have believed he was gone without seeing him because we’d texted just this week.

“I missed this text…I’m around tonight. Would love to lay eyes on you.”

That was my response on Sunday to a text from John that hadn’t shown up on my phone on Friday when he’d sent it.

“Needed help a couple of days ago.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help. Is everything ok now? Anything I can do?”

My last text was met by silence. It wasn’t an unusual silence, we were intermittent in our texting and John is… was… social. Even so, I had a bad feeling when I saw the police walking toward our building when I arrived home yesterday. And when  I asked them if everything was ok they told me it was just a welfare check. Just. And I knew. 

And I knew…

My sweet neighbor and friend is gone.

He died alone, in his hallway. I didn’t know. I feel like I should have known. 

The first time we hung out John invited me over for lunch and drinks. He presented me with the first of many gourmet meals and politely plied me with some alcoholic concoction. At least, that is the way I tell the story of our friendship. He always countered my assertion with, “I only topped off your drink,” which, of course, is also true. Whatever the reality, the alcohol went straight to my head. At some point in the afternoon I stood up and mumbled, “I have to go home.” John laughed as I stumbled the four feet across the hall. He made sure I actually closed my door and then, later, managed to simultaneously check in on me and sweetly mock my low tolerance. It was the birth of an ongoing joke between us.

For my part I feel a strong urge to have a cocktail and to eat something magnificent in homage and remembrance of my friend. It seems the most fitting way to send my affection to wherever he has gone.

Pizza Problems

I lost my second spoon in the blender. You’d swear I am both an idiot and a crap cook and I’ll argue I’m not either. But the compulsion just strikes me, my herbs floating on a current of air just above the blades. They somehow evade being pulled under with the nuts, garlic, and oil so I am left with whisked olive oil and the sound of a whirring blender. And initially I do the right thing. Initially I stop the whole affair, pat down the herbs with a spoon, stir them around a bit, before turning the whole thing on again. But it is a reenactment from the moment before. Still waving basil (and in this case arugula) leaves defying their pesto fate.

Don't judge; it was still delicious, splinters and all.

And so I stuck my wooden spoon into the mixture, gently…gently. Only those blades don’t understand the meaning of the word and so to a bite out of my spoon. My weathered and seasoned wooden spoon. 

Last time it was veggie burgers (pre-food processor) and my bright red silicone spatula. At least it is a variation on an inept theme and not a duplication. 

Shrug.

Tonight was a culinary comedy of errors. Wrecked spoon aside, I struggled to pull together a dish I’ve recently started cooking at least once a week: pesto pizza with some variation of vegetarian toppings.

An abundance of arugula from my CSA box inspired me to try out a variation on my pesto recipe. All out of cashews I used almonds instead (I prefer the creamier texture the cashews provide), but the arugula added nice flavor and aroma and made me feel as if it was somehow healthier as well. 

The simple yeast dough proved problematic. I usually do it first, allow some time for it to rise a little even though the recipe doesn’t call for it. But I was on the phone and I kept forgetting about the water so it would cool beyond the appropriate temp to activate the yeast. And when I finally remembered the yeast never quite bubbled properly. And when I added the flour I realized I hadn’t used enough water to begin with.

Sigh.

Rolling it out on the table I used too little flour and the whole thing stuck to itself when I tried to transfer it to the pan which forced me to begin again to get it right. 

Of course, right is a bit of an overstatement because as I suspected, the crust never properly rose and it took forever to brown. And so by the time I pulled it out of the oven, the sides just beginning to tan, the kale had dried up and browned in places, the potatoes were following its example, and the eggplant was drowning in my overly liquefied fresh mozzarella cheese.

Whatever its issues (the mushrooms I forgot to purchase, among them) it was still a delicious meal. I still have another bundle of arugula, some daikon, collard greens, baby potatoes, broccoli, and squash to consume…I’ll see what the coming days inspire.