Pink tastes like sugar, satin ribbons, sapphires. Like tender wounds. All that is lush with pleasure, frail with pain. Pink , I say to myself, the long vowel sound lingering, inviting me into the word—the world of pink—before the quick consonant at the end snaps shut, holding me forever.
I understand that living a life of things has repercussions. I’m so consumed, not only do I fail high school essays and vocabulary tests, I also fail the SAT s, barely getting accepted into college. Even college classes hold little interest. I’m much more content, say, observing imbrications on a pinecone, wondering how the bracts feel overlapping in their ornamental pattern. No, I know how they feel, each bract hugged and loved by its neighbor.
At a funeral for a friend killed in a car crash, I begin, now in my twenties, to question whether I should relinquish my hold on things, at least a little. I sense, during the service, the warm mahogany of the casket. I am awash in red roses, white carnations, yellow lilies, the perfume and aftershave of mourners pressed together in pews. People weep. Tears runnel through makeup, staining silk dresses.
I am unable to mourn, to weep. As much as I wonder why, I am equally consumed with the idea that things don’t betray you in this way, don’t die.
Or do they?
I am seized by two contradictory notions: that things don’t die; that they do. I am suddenly bereft when I realize I haven’t seen my rosary for over a decade. During which move did I lose it? Or were the beads, at some unremembered time, inadvertently crushed? Might I have even thrown away the rosary, my affections aglow with some new object of desire? Oh, the effusiveness of color in marbles, the destiny of red and yellow onbeach balls, the surrender of book covers waiting to be opened, the eagerness of Jujubes yearning to be devoured! I feel craven by my own deceit. That I am unfaithful. That I might have discarded the rosary after falling in love with an ivory button. How could I not have noticed—in my all-too-human way—that I, too, failed to be consistent, not always tender toward the feelings and needs of things?
Sitting in the pew in this church at this funeral, I grieve. Only now, I fully understand that, over the years, handkerchiefs shred. Ribbons unravel to lint. Ravenous moths fray feather collections. I, alone, am responsible for the loss, these deaths. Yet I never stopped to pay attention as my attention so willingly drifted from this sequin to that burnt sienna crayon . . . years of bijoux, bangles, bracelets. How sorrowfully I neglected my duties, even as I am solely in charge of their care.
But even if I maintain constant vigilance over my things, what will happen to them when I die? What will happen to my objects when I’m gone? Who will care for them, these things allowing themselves to be lovingly explored by me in all their dimensions? These things, all my things, are almost mortal themselves in the way they have been with me during my most intense experiences. They, in fact, have been my most intense experiences. I have held them, caressed them, licked them, examined them, inhaled them, heard them, savored them.
The church service ends. I find myself outside on the sidewalk, alone, here where I’m now living in Galveston, Texas. The day is sunny, hot, blue. The pallbearers slide the casket into the hearse. The door closes long before I know how to say good-bye to a human friend.
I seek therapy following the funeral, in the midst of these anxieties and contemplations. I need to understand my newly realized confusion about things—as much as I must learn to accept the everyday world of people to be as reliable, as enticing, as soulful as—well— real as objects, as things.
Instead, during hour-long therapy sessions with Dr. Gripon, I eye a bamboo tissue box on the coffee table. I begin, after a few sessions, to surreptitiously peel off slivers of wood. I slide them between my fingers. How
I understand that living a life of things has repercussions. I’m so consumed, not only do I fail high school essays and vocabulary tests, I also fail the SAT s, barely getting accepted into college. Even college classes hold little interest. I’m much more content, say, observing imbrications on a pinecone, wondering how the bracts feel overlapping in their ornamental pattern. No, I know how they feel, each bract hugged and loved by its neighbor.
At a funeral for a friend killed in a car crash, I begin, now in my twenties, to question whether I should relinquish my hold on things, at least a little. I sense, during the service, the warm mahogany of the casket. I am awash in red roses, white carnations, yellow lilies, the perfume and aftershave of mourners pressed together in pews. People weep. Tears runnel through makeup, staining silk dresses.
I am unable to mourn, to weep. As much as I wonder why, I am equally consumed with the idea that things don’t betray you in this way, don’t die.
Or do they?
I am seized by two contradictory notions: that things don’t die; that they do. I am suddenly bereft when I realize I haven’t seen my rosary for over a decade. During which move did I lose it? Or were the beads, at some unremembered time, inadvertently crushed? Might I have even thrown away the rosary, my affections aglow with some new object of desire? Oh, the effusiveness of color in marbles, the destiny of red and yellow onbeach balls, the surrender of book covers waiting to be opened, the eagerness of Jujubes yearning to be devoured! I feel craven by my own deceit. That I am unfaithful. That I might have discarded the rosary after falling in love with an ivory button. How could I not have noticed—in my all-too-human way—that I, too, failed to be consistent, not always tender toward the feelings and needs of things?
Sitting in the pew in this church at this funeral, I grieve. Only now, I fully understand that, over the years, handkerchiefs shred. Ribbons unravel to lint. Ravenous moths fray feather collections. I, alone, am responsible for the loss, these deaths. Yet I never stopped to pay attention as my attention so willingly drifted from this sequin to that burnt sienna crayon . . . years of bijoux, bangles, bracelets. How sorrowfully I neglected my duties, even as I am solely in charge of their care.
But even if I maintain constant vigilance over my things, what will happen to them when I die? What will happen to my objects when I’m gone? Who will care for them, these things allowing themselves to be lovingly explored by me in all their dimensions? These things, all my things, are almost mortal themselves in the way they have been with me during my most intense experiences. They, in fact, have been my most intense experiences. I have held them, caressed them, licked them, examined them, inhaled them, heard them, savored them.
The church service ends. I find myself outside on the sidewalk, alone, here where I’m now living in Galveston, Texas. The day is sunny, hot, blue. The pallbearers slide the casket into the hearse. The door closes long before I know how to say good-bye to a human friend.
I seek therapy following the funeral, in the midst of these anxieties and contemplations. I need to understand my newly realized confusion about things—as much as I must learn to accept the everyday world of people to be as reliable, as enticing, as soulful as—well— real as objects, as things.
Instead, during hour-long therapy sessions with Dr. Gripon, I eye a bamboo tissue box on the coffee table. I begin, after a few sessions, to surreptitiously peel off slivers of wood. I slide them between my fingers. How
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