Jumping into the Sky

(From 12/4/08)

"Mommy?" she calls to me from around corner.

I am upside down on the yoga ball, ignoring Lou Dobbs Tonight.

She finds me, then asked, "Is today one year since Tata...?"

I wait a beat to see if she's really asking what I think she's asking. When she only blinks at me, I take a deep breathe, give her another second still, then offer up, "....jumped into the sky????"

She nods, then tilts her head. "Let go of the grass!"

"Let go of the grass?" I understand it immediately.

When someone dies, gravity reverses.

The body that held them here and kept them from being part of the universe suddenly stops, and they let go of the grass and fall back into God.

Wonderful.

"Oh Zoe! I wish I'd thought of that! If I say that you said that, can I write it?"

She nods, I get my pen.

 Instead of just letting me jot down that line, she follows me and continues her story.

"One night Tata came to me and we were laying on our backs under a Palm Tree, looking at stars. She put her arm around me and pointed up, and said, 'Zoeita, see the stars? Those stars are angels, and when we die, we become one.' And after that, she hugged me."

I nod, not looking at her, still trying to write "let go of the grass" in my journal in a meaningful way, so that no one looking through my pages would think I was writing a to-do list.

Across I line I scribble, jumping into heaven, let go of grass, Zoe, 12/1, upside down on yoga ball.

"And THEN she let go of the grass?" I ask Zoe, ready to listen more carefully to her story.

"No, Mom, she hugged me that night and she's never let me go."

"Tata never jumped off the grass?"

Zoe shakes her head, "No, she never jumped off the grass! She's with me!"

"Abuela is with YOU? So she didn't jump into the sky? She didn't let go of the grass?"

Zoe shook her head. "Nope, neither."

"Fine. You're saying I was wrong about the jumping into the sky?"

She nods, solemnly, patting me on the arm.

I turn back to my journal and start to cross out what I'd written, then stop.

I get my Mac, turn it on, and with Zoe tucked under my left arm, type this story one-handed, grateful for the fantastic mystery of it all.

Through a Glass, Darkly

From 12/6/07

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known"
Corinthians 13:12

It's about 8:15pm on Wednesday December 5 , and I am home in Tallahassee after a long drive from Fort Lauderdale.

I am surrounded by love, hugs, coloring pages and candy canes, all things that make me thirsty.

I open the cabinet, grab my favorite aqua cup, the one with the Mickey Mouse insignia so subtly and artistically etched on it, then cry.

This was HERS, I sob to the unlistening sink and the empty 2 liter of Sunkist.

Wave after wave of sadness and guilt wash over me.

I stole this cup from Abuela.

I did.

She had a set of 8 that my mother bought her at Downtown Disney a few years ago. One day I poured myself a "to go cup," stuck it in my car, and never returned it.

Every time I've used it, I've thought, "nope, not going to give it back... not until I get myself a set..."
I always loved that set, and each of the countless times I've been to Downtown Disney I haven't made a single sincere effort to buy myself Mickey Mouse cups.

Maybe I didn't really want my own cups.
Maybe I just couldn't be honest.
Maybe the truth was just too ugly.
What I wanted was Abuela's cups.

The cups aren't that old, and maybe they aren't very special looking, but they mean something to me.

I imagine that other people -- maybe people who aren't descended from refugees? -- have heirlooms like great-grandpa's rifle, great-great-Grandmother's teapot, lace curtains, WW2 letters, tiny silver spoons.

We don't.

So instead of things, we have traditions.

We lie.

And then, of course, tell stories about our lies.

For example, my abuelos lied to their children when they were leaving Cuba in 1960.

Instead of saying "tell everyone goodbye, we are OUT of here!" they told the children it was just for a vacation.

This is forgivable.

Tearful goodbyes or packing sentimental things-- baseball gloves, love letters -- were red flags that have jeopardized their safety.

Just a small lie, but a memorable one nonetheless.

Years ago, my abuelo's sister -- Tia Fifi (http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2006/09/no-funeral-no-food-fight.html) stayed at with Abuelo and Abuela house while recovering from a heart attack.

During her month-long visit, Tiafi's son Eduardo had a heart attack.

She kept trying to call him at home, but he wouldn't answer.

Because, of course, he was in the hospital.

Finally someone -- I won't point fingers here -- told her "Oh! Didn't you hear? Eduardo is in the Keys."

For awhile, every time someone was sick or dying, we'd say, "Oh? Visiting the Keys?"

Lies, lies, lies.

One year while I was home from graduate school for Winter Break my mother confided in me that she had three tickets for the Orange Bowl -- don't tell your father!

Later that same day, my father pulled me aside to show me the three tickets he bought for the Orange Bowl -- don't tell your Mom!

When the three of us were together, Mom would rant about how she wished we could go to the game, how we couldn't afford tickets, how there were no tickets to be found.

Dad kept making speeches about how he wouldn't dream of going to the Orange Bowl and missing other games on TV.

Keeping their secrets and watching them lie made me physically ill.
This went on for a painful long week until game day, when they both broke it to me there really only was only one set of tickets.

Gotcha!

They laughed.

I cried.

We still see that as a positive family experience.

And then there's last Saturday, December 1.

I guess we couldn't tell my abuelos why I was really driving down.

Imagine "Melissa is coming here to say her last goodbye."

That's too deep.

Too real.

Too honest and painful.

So when I got to the hospital, Abuelo asked, "Where is it that you're giving a lecture again? University of Miami? On Cuban History? That's something! " I stammered, said something vague, changed the subject.

When I sat next to Abuela, my mom elbowed me, and I dutifully looked the woman right in the eyes and let out a string of lies.

"Aren't I lucky to be here, now, giving a paper? What a wonderful coincidence that they brought me down right now, and I can see you?"

Abuela pulled her hand out from under mine, narrowed her eyes.

I could hear her thinking all sorts of curses for me.

Maldita.
Descarada.
Sinverguenza.
Mentiroza.
Comemierda.

And worse.

She knew why I was there.

And now that she no longer sees things, "through a glass, darkly" I just know Abuela forgives me for lying to her on her last day on earth.

It was, after all, a cherished and unbroken family tradition.
*******************************************

Abuelita, I'll see you in the Keys.

Goodnight Abuelo

(from November 2008)

I turn off the reading light, folding my thick book against my chest.Again, as the night before and the night before that, the two of us end our evening sitting in reclining chairs facing the TV.

Last night we watched a game show, then musicals.

Tonight we're watching M*A*S*H.

Soon enough, having finished his milk and cake, he falls asleep in the chair, dark blue slippers dangling from his black socked feet.

I turn the TV down, smooth the hair off his forehead and kiss him above his eyes.

He stirs, smiles, and calls me "Me vida," (my life), and I believe him.

Without turning back, I walk down the narrow hall to Abuela's room, book in hand, then sit in the silent darkness, thankful.

Abe's Story: Part 1

“When one person is missing the whole world seems empty.”

― Pat Schweibert,

In the minute of silence that fell after I handed out all the Final Exams my  eyes scanned the room, so proud to see this group cross the finish line.

 I don’t need a roster to tell me who is missing, and even though I am sure they aren’t there, I call their names.

Dina? Khalid?

Their classmates look up, look around, look concerned.

We look towards the door and then I shake it off and say to the class, “I’m sure it’s car problems, or… something…” and send Dina and Khalid – brother and sister -  an email asking where they are even though I’m completely 100% sure that they fell victim to the confusion that buzzes around finals week and they MUST think the exam is Thursday instead of today.   

I’m just sure I know exactly why they aren’t here where they should be, taking an exam and getting their lucky rock. 

Their brother Abe got his lucky rocks from me both semesters he took my classes, and in return he brought me treasure from his travels visiting family overseas.  

This is a good family, these are strong students who come from something and are going somewhere to good things. 

I’m sure everything is ok.

Because I think I know everything,  I go on with my day waiting to hear back from them.

 I don’t hear back from either of them.

 Instead I get an email with one of their names in the title (NEVER good, never ever good) and as I skim it quickly the word death pops out in the paragraph that follows.

Oh no. Ohhhh no. No. NO. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

 I hand my phone to Zoe and demand she reads it to me, then I pull my phone back, because I can’t make my daughter read this to me.

It says that their cousin notified TCC that their brother passed away in an accident, and attached a link to a local news story about the incident.

Oh no, oh no.NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I cry for Dina, for Khalid, for their parents, for their little brother Ibrahim who was just with them at Veterans Village just days ago, handing cold cans of Dr. Pepper to Veterans.

 Last Thursday now seems like the last minutes of the whole first part of their story, the part where Abe was here, and we were laughing and everything made sense.

(to be continued ---) 

Messy and Joyful: Michael's Story

Every semester I give my students lucky rocks at their final exam. This started years ago to mark the sudden passing of a student, and it’s become a class tradition that students look forward to.

 At the end of every semester, right before final exams, I go to the place and sort through the rocks and pick out the ones I know have (or represent) special blessings, in particular:

• The one that helps you let go of ideas from your past that don’t serve you in the person you will come
• The one that represents encouragement and support
• The one that helps you see a pattern in chaos (insight and wisdom)
• The one that represents freedom (freedom from AND freedom to)
• The one that invites abundance and gratitude (wealth in many ways)
• .....other ones not listed above because I need to move this story along

This is usually fun, but nope, not now. NOT TODAY.

I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to go anywhere, I just want to cry. No, not just cry, I want to throw a fit but I can’t exactly figure out how.  This isn’t like me, so forgive me.

Someone in my world, our world, has died. 

I can’t figure out how to describe him to you.

His name was Michael.

He was a Veteran.   

He was a student at my college, and current president of the Student Veterans Association, an official group for which I try to act as advisor but mostly find they do best if I stay out of their way.

 Was he a homeless? I’m not sure.  

He did have roof over his head at Veterans Village, a transitional living facility that serves the homeless. 

I pass on an answer there.

I have served dinner to the Veterans at Veterans Village for most of the last 60 Thursdays plus some Saturdays with my students, friends and colleagues. 

Of those dinners, I am quite sure I have eaten dinner with Michael 30 times, maybe 40. 

 Last year Thanksgiving (lol), Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve all fell on Thursdays, so I know I spent the holidays with him. 

He always arrived late, always had bags thrown over his arms, always coming from somewhere and heading somewhere. 

He had a job AND he had job interviews. 

Michael was about to go where he was going to go, to where his entire life prepared him for.

I remember one night in March he arrived to dinner at Veterans Village very late. He stopped me and leaned in my car to tell me about a paint gun tournament, asking if I could recruit students to participate. 

Me: (laughing) You want me to ask me students to let Student Veterans literally actually really shoot at them?

Him: Yes, it will be fun.

Me:  How is this good for my students? How will they even stand a chance? Is this ethical? Are you going to use Geneva Convention POW thingy…...?

Him: I’ll spread the Veterans among the groups so it’s all fair.

Me: OK, email me the info.

(He does)

(Weeks pass)

Michael again, as usual, arrives at dinner at Veterans Village as we are cleaning up.

He is coming from work and is ridiculously happy. We stand on the balcony and talk for the better part of an hour.  

He came from a job interview in Texas and if he took the job he would be making more than I do.

HI say GO! I say TAKE THIS JOB!  

But he isn’t sure.

He discusses how his new job will pay for a hotel for X amount, and a car for X amount but only X amount to move his stuff.  And after that they will pay for a car at X amount.

 I say that’s great, that’s ridiculously better than most people get.

He’s worried about where he will live after the hotel, how he will make friends.

 I tell him the universe has plans for him, how whatever got him HERE has plans to take him further. The universe is always growing. Expect the best, be part of the best.

He smiles and seems to like my words but he needs to know exactly what will happen when in another city. before he can leave here.

I tell him to jump, take the leap, trust the universe has plans for him.

He laughs and says he isn’t sure, maybe he won’t go to Austin, maybe there’s something even better waiting.

He fills his plate with baked ziti, gets salad and cookies and other things my students have for Veterans at Veterans Village and goes off to his room.

The next time I see him, it’s on campus and I’m doing my end-of-the-day RACE towards my car. 

I need to navigate between texting teens and make my way across the sidewalk,  dash off campus and get far across town in an impossibly tight window of time. 

Hey! Hey! He says to me, slowing my roll

 I shout What!

 I walk backwards as he talks to me. I don't even pretend to not be distracted.

He’s going to send me an email about an event. I say OK, good send it.

He tells me the date and time and I push back, reminding him that his event is during prime time classes on the last day of the semester.

He shrugs and smiles and tells me to check my email then off he goes.

I remember reading the email, but I didn’t concentrate on his last name.

This past Thursday at dinner at Veterans Village I saw there was a note posted on the door of the community room saying there would be  a memorial for a person named Michael whose name looked vaguely familiar.

I let it go, I had to finish the dinner.

My mind is particularly full and just doesn’t make room for this.

The next day as I’m entering my office, one of my former student Veterans who is finishing his degree this semester was standing in the hall talking to another professor about a Student Veteran memorial we are having instead of a meeting this afternoon.

The person who passed away was the president of the student Vets

Now it all makes sense and it is 10:45 in the morning on the last day of classes and I don’t even know what to do. 

I jump into their conversation, “This is NOT sad! He was SO alive! He was going somewhere, doing things, having a good time!! I WILL NOT BE SAD”

My student vet (who is my age) shook his head and said this was sad.

My colleague, a psychology professor, shook his head and said this was sad.

I go to my office and talk to the students who are waiting to see me in the last minutes of the last office hours of the last day of the semester.

My colleague, a psychology professor, comes to my office as I’m locking up and says, again, this is very sad.

 I say NO and he goes off to do what he does while I went off to explain why the US invaded Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003.

After classes I have things do to, mostly mom stuff and a story I had to finish WRITING about a never-changing friendship plant.

It wasn’t until after dinner, until after running, until the pocket of quiet engulfed me that I felt the tidal wave of sadness. Michael was almost leaving here, almost going somewhere better, almost cashing in on the experience he earned in the military.

This was so sad.  So freaking sad. I spent my Friday night crying and the better part of Saturday being angry but getting things done. 

These are stages of grief, and I don’t fear them, but I’d rather just not.

Sunday morning (today) I wok up late, long after dawn, and remember I have the most sacred errand of buying rocks today. A voice says “f** it, so what if they don’t get rocks?” 

The idea of getting to the mall is overwhelming and I consider skipping a semester as the rock fairy. 

Three cups of coffee later and I find my kindness, or kindness finds me or whatever. I feel better and off I go.

At the special rock store in the special rock bin, I push my hand into the pile of rocks and let the lucky ones find me.

I need about 150 rocks, and I pick them one at a time with great intention and love.

Many slide through my fingers and slip away, a few stay.

This one calls to me, that one shines, this one glimmers, this one is perfection, and this one is peace.

There are new rocks that I haven’t seen before which I try to avoid but there are so many of them that I can’t help myself from touching them.

A nice lady working at the place asks me if I need help.

I do. I can’t explain why, but my hands are black, like I’m covered in pencil lead. She offers some paper towels and gloves.

I tell her that I come here at the end of every semester and my hands haven’t ever turned black before.

Yes, it’s the peacock ore. The happiness and joy rock. It gets you dirty. Let me give you some gloves. (She does)

My gloves get dirty and I don’t care. I understand Michael’s lesson and I understand why I am here to day.

I have a story, now, for you and one to tell my students right before I hand them their final exams: 

These rocks are pieces of bigger rocks, and all the rocks are part of earth, and you are part of earth and so you have always been connected to your lucky rock.  Just like you found your rock, you will find every blessing intended for you.  I hope your lucky rock – and every rock you find – will remind you to follow your path to happiness and joy, go boldly, and know it will mostly likely be like the peacock ore, like life and death and grief and friendship - BOTH messy and joyful.

I don’t know why you’re gone already Michael. 

I am sure you will find great joy in this whatever comes after this short messy life of wisdom and optimism and friendship.

  Rest in peace my friend.