there—hairbrush or whatever—might scratch the finish. And I knew I could not sleep in her bed. And so I went, lucky for us we’d been given the keys until we made up our minds, straight to “the ruin.” And slept alone on the floor, during what turned out to be my first night in the new house.
We were so far apart by then I would not have wanted you to come with me. Still, I missed your nearness, in the strange, gloomy house, in which only a few lights on the first floor, and a couple on the fourth floor, worked. It was a house with eight fireplaces! Were we hoping for warmth and coziness, or what?
But it was not to be. Not for the two of us, who, in the enormous house, passed each other like ships in the night. You went each day to a law office in midtown Manhattan, far away from the clients in Mississippi whose slow, drawling comments and stories you loved, and who sometimes paid you with fried chicken and watermelons. I could see your deep unhappiness to be back in the city you’d so eagerly left. Seeking to ignore my own disorientation, I learned everything there was to knowabout fireplace tile and floor varnish and grout. Twice a week I went into the city to work for a women’s magazine. I had anxiety attacks of such severity I thought I would, one day, simply fail to arrive at my destination. For several years, I often felt as though I were floating through the streets of Brooklyn and New York. And that you were somewhere out there, too, but I felt little connection to you.
But Our Child seemed happy. She had friends her own age up and down our street. She loved her school and her teachers. She had a baby-sitter across from us who was from the Islands and taught her to make wonderful simple food, like
arroz con pollo
, her favorite dish. This I say now, to her, in her therapist’s office, as she sits, pensively, all five feet six of her, leaning slightly forward, and, I am sad to note, silently weeping. How odd it feels to realize she could not have known, although perhaps she did, being so sensitive, the pain and sorrow that was so heavy in our hearts. That perhaps we were not dragging around the house in her child’s mind, as we were dragging around it in our own.
And now, beloved, it seems to me that our major fault, all these years, is that we never took the time before, any of us, to properly grieve what we lost. What
we
, as a perky little human family in a frighteningly unloving culture and country, lost, when our small dream of an indomitable love ended. And this is in addition to the fact that we also failed to properly mourn the deaths by assassination and terrorism of so many people in public life whom we admired and loved, because to do so would have simply overwhelmed us. We would have given up and died. Maybe the beginning of our end as a couple was the day when we learned Martin had been killed and I promptly miscarried. How will anyone ever understand how much we loved him?
Even today I can barely bring myself to listen to his voice. Attimes I force myself to do so. And sure enough, after thinking that my heart will break one more unendurable time, he resolutely pulls me through the pain. He left us on such a high note of fearlessness and hope. Maybe he lied to us, though. Maybe there is no “promised land” for us. Just look at this poor country, like the orphan of the Universe. But even this fails to frighten me anymore. I believe only the moment we are in is promised, and that it, whatever it is, should always be “the future” we want.
And that is why I am thinking of you, and reminding you of a moment in which we, unlikely us, shared a vision and a reality of love, that need not be completely lost. If North America survives, it will not look like or be like it is today. One day there will be, created out of all of us lovers, an American race—remember how Jean Toomer, whom we sometimes read to each other, in Mississippi, was already talking about this American race, even in the
We were so far apart by then I would not have wanted you to come with me. Still, I missed your nearness, in the strange, gloomy house, in which only a few lights on the first floor, and a couple on the fourth floor, worked. It was a house with eight fireplaces! Were we hoping for warmth and coziness, or what?
But it was not to be. Not for the two of us, who, in the enormous house, passed each other like ships in the night. You went each day to a law office in midtown Manhattan, far away from the clients in Mississippi whose slow, drawling comments and stories you loved, and who sometimes paid you with fried chicken and watermelons. I could see your deep unhappiness to be back in the city you’d so eagerly left. Seeking to ignore my own disorientation, I learned everything there was to knowabout fireplace tile and floor varnish and grout. Twice a week I went into the city to work for a women’s magazine. I had anxiety attacks of such severity I thought I would, one day, simply fail to arrive at my destination. For several years, I often felt as though I were floating through the streets of Brooklyn and New York. And that you were somewhere out there, too, but I felt little connection to you.
But Our Child seemed happy. She had friends her own age up and down our street. She loved her school and her teachers. She had a baby-sitter across from us who was from the Islands and taught her to make wonderful simple food, like
arroz con pollo
, her favorite dish. This I say now, to her, in her therapist’s office, as she sits, pensively, all five feet six of her, leaning slightly forward, and, I am sad to note, silently weeping. How odd it feels to realize she could not have known, although perhaps she did, being so sensitive, the pain and sorrow that was so heavy in our hearts. That perhaps we were not dragging around the house in her child’s mind, as we were dragging around it in our own.
And now, beloved, it seems to me that our major fault, all these years, is that we never took the time before, any of us, to properly grieve what we lost. What
we
, as a perky little human family in a frighteningly unloving culture and country, lost, when our small dream of an indomitable love ended. And this is in addition to the fact that we also failed to properly mourn the deaths by assassination and terrorism of so many people in public life whom we admired and loved, because to do so would have simply overwhelmed us. We would have given up and died. Maybe the beginning of our end as a couple was the day when we learned Martin had been killed and I promptly miscarried. How will anyone ever understand how much we loved him?
Even today I can barely bring myself to listen to his voice. Attimes I force myself to do so. And sure enough, after thinking that my heart will break one more unendurable time, he resolutely pulls me through the pain. He left us on such a high note of fearlessness and hope. Maybe he lied to us, though. Maybe there is no “promised land” for us. Just look at this poor country, like the orphan of the Universe. But even this fails to frighten me anymore. I believe only the moment we are in is promised, and that it, whatever it is, should always be “the future” we want.
And that is why I am thinking of you, and reminding you of a moment in which we, unlikely us, shared a vision and a reality of love, that need not be completely lost. If North America survives, it will not look like or be like it is today. One day there will be, created out of all of us lovers, an American race—remember how Jean Toomer, whom we sometimes read to each other, in Mississippi, was already talking about this American race, even in the
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