It’s all been said so many stupid ways so many boring times. Maybe I won’t even write any more about the festering bag of clotted grief I’ve become during every waking and many sleeping moments. I’ll let this painting by David Pearson capture my spirit.
The illustration is from the Penguin Great Loves edition of Tolstoy’s Kruetzer Sonata, which is about sexual abstinence, jealous rage and resulting murder. Now, Tolstoy: there was a guy who knew from words.
Ever since I got home after the night of blinding heartbreak — which happened also to be the anniversary of my father’s and mother-in-law’s deaths — Jason and Eleni come into my room morning, noon and night. Their objective is to place tiny Emmy into my arms as I lie in bed. I cradle her till we’re both asleep. When J & E are ready, they pry her from my grasp.
To look at the scene, you’d think that child would be protected from any harm whilst wrapped in her grandmother’s mighty branches. She’s not going to roll out of bed or get squished by me, it’s true, but it’s been proven that one can excise her from my grip without my noticing. The kids say I sleep like a tweaker after a long run, or an oxy-popper, or some other contemporary druggie term.
Dear pumpkinblossom,
I love you. And I hope you heal soon & well, improbable as that may seem.