de-rendering

Dear Sis,

Where have you been?

I keep the porcelain vase with the kelly green clovers on my dresser. I fill it with freshwater pearls on Sundays. It leaks french perfume onto the inane wood pattern. My fingertips on the mouth of the vase. Back and forth. Trembling.

 I’m getting married and you won’t be there.

How poignant the absence of your creaky laughter, the rocking sound of your chair, your softness, your effervescence. How fucking sharp – the figure of you in bed, drawn, tiny.

I wrote a letter to Leenie seven years ago, looking out my window in Greenpoint. Her absence is a gaping wound. Now Kevin is gone and you’re still here.

Forgive my callousness.

I’ve been looking for you in all of the little places.

I see Leenie in the rain and wonder where I’ll see you.

The summer sky is dull and muggy.

I’m looking where the mountains meet the ocean, verdant rolling hills and valleys, cliffs with braying sheep, faerie circles. I’m waiting for Winter, for the Nutcracker where I will look in the audience and the Lincoln Center café for a woman with a chocolate-smeared face. I’m standing on Hausman street, looking for catholic school uniforms and Monsignor McGolrick and mallo-mars and scrappy mutts named Teddy.

I’m trying to catch your black and blue feet in brackish water. I’m watching the sun burn a soul-deep glow into your face. A child is reaching for you.

My mother calls every day and every day I think she will tell me you’ve left us. I feel there’s some connection between the world appearing to crumble biblically and you diminishing. I want to ask what you say when you talk to God.

Where is your delight in everyone you meet? Where are your discerning gazes? Your well full of joy?

I’m reaching for you.

You’ll be at the little round table in the bungalow, drinking milky tea, and holding court. A dog will be barking outside and a child coming in and out, banging and squeaking open the storm door. You’ll put down your romance novel and look out the window. I’ll read Ibsen in the original Norwegian and, though you won’t understand a word, you’ll say, “Well, isn’t that beautiful?”

I’ll think of Jesus. Incense and awkward sermons and the sharp edges of the pew. Remember what it was to float around your house in one of my flouncy dresses with your firm talk keeping me from blowing away. Resonant, your voice talking about virtue and faith. Incredible, to have your care and attention all focused on me sometimes.

Now, I think of a hundred delicate clovers, a poignant crucifix, a transatlantic echo from the television speakers, the taste of Thanksgiving gravy and the awful feeling of being overfull. Are you there?

A stain on my shirt from dinner that would perfectly match one of yours. Someone pronouncing a name just so slightly wrong. The first wine I ever tasted – White Zinfandel – your favorite, so putrid-sweet.

I don’t know, I don’t know where you’ll be. At night the tide pulls the moon. You’re not there and summer falls out of balance. How painful a film reeling in my hand.

Your face in old photographs – always smiling this simple, satisfied smile, like life was so good exactly the way it was, like you knew your exact place in the world, knew what to say, even with just a look at the camera.

I’m reaching for you.

I’m reaching for you.