Back in the District

I've been out of DC for about the same time as it takes to play the Wimbledon Tournament and let me tell you that the lights of the Lincoln Memorial never looked better as we came up the GW Parkway from National. It was a harrowing two weeks because even though we've known for several months that my wife's mother's death was imminent, it's not something that you can digest until it happens. How does Emily Dickinson have it?

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --

Death after a long illness conjures up contradictory emotions in the survivors: the pain of loss coupled with the relief that a loved one's suffering has ended. The friends and relatives, too, feel that release from a certain kind of suffering: the dying body represents only the outlines of the person they knew, leaving the visitor pained with lost possibilities.

For the last month, my mother-in-law couldn't speak or move. The unresponsive body allows for no final interactions, no dying words to be passed to those nearby. Her children fed her, because she could still eat, but there's a need for communication that remains unsatisfied. We know through small things, like increased eye tracking, that her grandchildren brought her some measure of joy in her last weeks, and while they're too young to understand the loss, we as parents understand how much joy we've all missed out on.

When our son was born, my wife's mother came to DC immediately and painted a moon and stars on our son's bedroom walls. She came again after the birth of our daughter, but in the five years between the two children so much had changed. She rarely had the energy to do more than move slowly through the house.

After her death, it was our job -- along with my wife's siblings -- to go through her house, digging through boxes that contained nothing of any worth except memories that made them invaluable. We also dug through boxes and drawers that brought recollections of a different sort: five or six mini flashlights scattered through kitchen drawers; four rolls of tin foil, all opened and used to some extent; stacks of unwritten birthday cards and notecards. All examples of her dominant trend toward disorganization that was only exacerbated by her illness.

And always the flood of images: nearly every bookcase contained at least one photo album; several bookcases seemed to exist for no other reason than to hold photo albums. Boxes in closets were full of photos representing four generations of extended family, in no particular order.

Photos are perhaps the most visible example of how objects evoke memories; after all the idea that you are capturing the spirit of the event is one of the leading sales pitches for photography. However, other objects resonate with personal meaning: a cribbage board given as a gift to my wife's grandfather in 1915, from the great-aunt who is our daughter's namesake (anyone have trouble following that genealogy? Anyone still reading, for that matter?), for example.

These objects keep people alive, but it isn't the object itself that works the magic -- it's the stories woven around them. It's the language we layer upon the object, the connection between the teller and the listener, that allows the object to conjure forth the souls of the departed. It's a small thing, perhaps, considered next to the works of Shakespeare or Van Gogh for example, but it's the only shot at immortality that most any of us get.