A Day in the Life

Finding solace in a memorial garden.

Hey. Hello. I’m not waking you, am I? Good. Just out for a walk. Can you believe this weather? Everything’s green. I’ve never seen so many violets.

Who planted them? Good question. I don’t have an answer. They appeared overnight, as if someone had rolled out an emerald carpet. I took off my shoes. The ground was cool. Damp, fragrant. When was the last time we walked barefoot together?

We did walk barefoot together. Didn’t we?

I’m sure we did.

Portaging in the Boundary Waters, you stumbled with the canoe. A bad sprain. Duct tape, icy lake, whiskey. Both of us fine - really fine - the next morning. Then at the end, I tried to rub your cold feet back to life. But you were in different waters, alone, crossing a border I could not see.

You say it’s your turn to ask questions. Okay, shoot.

Where are you? Straight to the big one. I have no idea.

But I can tell you where I am. Behind the hospice, there’s a garden. Remember? We signed out a walker, came down that sidewalk to this courtyard. Covered with snow then, this patio made of red bricks. When the — what word to use, residents? — move out, some families make donations to the hospice, for a brick with their loved one’s name engraved on it. This is where the workers put them.

Where they get laid? Ha ha. Good one.

You don’t like “move out”? You want me to use the D word. All right: when they die.

Is there a brick with your name on it? Yes.

All in all, you’re just a brick in the wall? Please don’t say that. It hurts when you say that.

The memorial bricks radiate outward. In the center, a small figure embedded in the pavement — an abstract image, compassion, I believe — reaches out to gather all the lonely people. Drab rectangles of red clay brighten in the sunlight. Border of iris, lilies, bleeding hearts. The pond, the stream. This way, says compassion, is true north.

I hope you're staying dry. The rain barrel’s full. I had the lawn mowed Monday and now it needs it again. Who mowed it? Some guy I met at neighborhood coffee. He mows lawns. That’s it. No other services apply. You took them with you. I trust you’re saving your, uh, services for me.

See those bright ribbons hanging from the tree? Each one is a voice. Maybe you hear them. Maybe one is yours.

To place a memorial brick, the gardeners swap out a blank one.

Each stayed in place in the beginning. Seated alphabetically, like the first day of school. Then folks kept dying. The bricks had to go somewhere. Start the school year over for the new kid! You were by that cherub statue for a while. As if it would make you behave. So, over to Our Lady. Now you’re here.

Where’s here? That question again. Do I have to send you back to Our Lady?

Bricks, two abreast, like married couples. Sometimes they quarrel. Sometimes they lie together, taking in the sun.

As a patio it’s fine. It gets swept daily. As a memorial? Chaos. You were a librarian, it must drive you insane. Names! Order! It’s as if someone pulled books from the shelves and shoved them back anywhere. I can just hear you. Who catalogued this area? Names K through N: Kafka to Nabokov. O through T: Ovid, Thoreau. But Franz wants help with a sequel, and Vlad’s chasing Henry with a butterfly net —

You’re muttering: Why not O through Z?

Why not a rainbow, and a yellow brick road?

It’s so quiet. You’d never know that inside the building, souls are sobbing, shouting their last words. Does anyone hear them? The desperate crescendo, as in “A Day in the Life.” That long, final chord as the song comes to an end. You lifted the needle. Silence. Is that how it was?

Maybe for you, “A Day in the Life” was just one day in your life. Only the crescendo, and that long, final chord.

In your world, it stopped. In my world, it goes on forever.

Where are you? Not in that black box they handed me at the crematory. In the black paper gift bag. I had to hold you from underneath. You were still warm. I wrapped you in a blanket, carried you around the house. Cradled you like the newborn boy you once were. Sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” until my voice went ragged. By then, you were cold.

Maybe you’re with me. Here. In the long chord that goes on forever.

Have you noticed that violet leaves are shaped like hearts? And the flowers aren’t shy. They’re flashy. Wild. Living like there’s no tomorrow.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

On this Memorial Day weekend, I want to offer my deepest sympathies to all who are feeling the pain of loss. All of us grieve in our own way, but no one should grieve alone. I’m glad you’re here. I am grateful beyond words to the readers and subscribers who offer their love and support, and bring their own stories to the comments. This is an amazing community.

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