Shiva
“Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out”
I think about this idea in microcosm all the time. That on the morning of the day of my death, I will likely wake up and say something like, “yes, let’s talk about that tomorrow” or “perhaps next weekend we can do that” but those times will never come. I worry about it in fits and spurts--that this day might be that day--but I don’t make decisions around it. But the thought dances through my mind like a mote in my vision. I hope, when that day comes, that some famous writer or artist dies around the same time so my friends and family can associate that artist’s obvious brilliance with my more subtle shine.
Someone I knew better, though not a whole lot better, than W.S. Merwin died a few days ago and we went to his memorial service and sat Shiva with his wife and daughter this past weekend. He and his wife were friends of ours, but not terribly close--their daughter went to school with our daughter until last year. I had her mom’s phone number programmed in my phone, we went to their block party, the girls had a couple of overnights.
I have found myself disproportionately emotional about his death. Part of my grief has been selfish guilt for not being more helpful to his wife when he was ill. But a lot of my grief has been for their 12-year-old daughter. I keep thinking about the narrative that will dominate her life for some time to come: “my father died when I was in 6th grade.”
Recently, in my freshman English course, I taught Chiamanda Achidie’s essay “The Danger of a Single Story” in which she discusses the assumptions we make about people and groups when we know only one thing about them. Achidie’s essay focuses on bias around class and race, but can be applied to the assumptions we make about people when one part of their story is all we know. I have known S (their daughter) since she and my daughter were in 2nd grade. I know her as a strong personality with a razor-sharp wit and a well-tuned sense of timing. She is keenly observant, retains everything, and draws on her memories to make sure she is touching you closely when she is with you. S knows her audience and never fails to make a lasting impression. But now, no matter how resourceful, entertaining, or difficult she is (all characteristics associated with pre-teen girls), her actions will be defined by this single story.
S is so strong and resilient. Yes, she’s had to be. Her father died when she was 12.
Did you hear S’s song? It was so clever and funny. Yes, she uses a lot of humor. I am sure it helps her cope with the fact that her father died when she was 12.
S seemed really angry the other day. She’s had a lot to deal with--her father died when she was 12.
My 12-year-old daughter was embarrassed by my tears at the Shiva, but I also know she was close to shedding a few, though she will never admit it. I explained to her that we cry at funerals and weddings because they ask us to relive similar experiences of death and love in our own lives. Tears have many stories.
I’m reading a book right now in which the characters keep revisiting the phrase, “it’s not my story to tell” as a plot device that invites another character to come in and take over their story. So, I’ll turn this story back over to S to finish and start my own.
“Every year without knowing it I have passed the day” when anything could happen. Yes, on one of those days I will die, but that is just a single story.
