land so gravid that it welcomed with unique delicacy the tread of human feet, yielding slightly to the weight of a body, absorbing it with a welcome as hospitable as that of a river breeze.
âI want to be buried here, I donât want to be alone when Iâm dead, surrounded by strangers in a cemetery as big as a city,â she used to tell you. I donât mind dying, but I donât want to be buried where no one knows me, among strange names, that would be like living again in one of those apartment buildings where I was an outsider, stuck in my house waiting all afternoon for my children to come home, and my husband after nightfall, reserved or talkative, bragging about his job or bad-mouthing the people in
his office, superiors or subordinates, names I hear and get used to but then stop hearing and forget, just as I get used to the new cities where his work takes us and where I never have time to get completely settled, never have what I want most: my own things, furniture Iâve picked out, a routine, thatâs what I miss the most, being able to settle sweetly into the passing of time, to get established, to occupy a secure place in the world, as I did as a child living in my small town, and although I always had a head for fantasy and imagined journeys and adventures, I enjoyed the safety of my home, my brothers and sisters, the presence of my father, the joy of looking out the window of my room and seeing the valley with its flowering almond and apple trees and, high above them, the bare tops of the mountains, with that color earth thatâs the same as the houses on the road to the cemetery where I want to be buried.
It makes me sad to leave life so soon and not see my children grow up or sit again with my sister to count and make a list of supplies in the large kitchen that looks out on the garden and the valley. Really itâs more sadness than fear I feel, but thereâs something more, something I didnât count on, a strong desire to be relieved of tormented nights, medicines, sudden crises, trips in the ambulance, hospital rooms, all the tubes and machines. I used to imagine that it all would end and I would get well, but now I know I wonât; even though they tell me theyâve found a new medication, I know that the time I have left will be exactly like now, or worse, a lot worse, as my heart grows weaker. I long to rest as I did when I was young and behind in my sleep. I would jump into bed and pull the covers over my head and close my eyes tight to get to sleep as quickly as possible. I would cover my mouth to hold back the giggles that burst out like the water in the public fountain when you pressed the copper or bronze handle down too hard. The water roared into the jar, cool and deep as the mouth of a well, all those years ago, before there was indoor plumbing and
we women went with our water jugs to the fountain high on the hill, where there were always swarms of wasps. My sister would complain that since she didnât have hips, the full jug always slid down her side. Oh, that summertime water, how I would love to wet my dry, cracked lips in it now, in the drops sweating through the cool belly of the jug, feel against my cheeks the cool beads of moisture, the pores breathing in the clay. Thatâs what I want, the only thing I want now, to fall asleep, to sink as I do when they give me a pill, or, better, a shot I can feel spreading through my bloodstream, through my whole body. Things fade: faces bending over me, beloved voices growing fainter, distant, and each time it takes a stronger effort not to let myself go along, as gently as closing your eyelids when you fall asleep.
The voices of my two daughters, and their faces so alike and so different, blend into the same sensation of tenderness and farewell, their hands clasp mine, covertly looking for my pulse when Iâm lying so still I seem to have died. I have an idea what my older daughter will think when
âI want to be buried here, I donât want to be alone when Iâm dead, surrounded by strangers in a cemetery as big as a city,â she used to tell you. I donât mind dying, but I donât want to be buried where no one knows me, among strange names, that would be like living again in one of those apartment buildings where I was an outsider, stuck in my house waiting all afternoon for my children to come home, and my husband after nightfall, reserved or talkative, bragging about his job or bad-mouthing the people in
his office, superiors or subordinates, names I hear and get used to but then stop hearing and forget, just as I get used to the new cities where his work takes us and where I never have time to get completely settled, never have what I want most: my own things, furniture Iâve picked out, a routine, thatâs what I miss the most, being able to settle sweetly into the passing of time, to get established, to occupy a secure place in the world, as I did as a child living in my small town, and although I always had a head for fantasy and imagined journeys and adventures, I enjoyed the safety of my home, my brothers and sisters, the presence of my father, the joy of looking out the window of my room and seeing the valley with its flowering almond and apple trees and, high above them, the bare tops of the mountains, with that color earth thatâs the same as the houses on the road to the cemetery where I want to be buried.
It makes me sad to leave life so soon and not see my children grow up or sit again with my sister to count and make a list of supplies in the large kitchen that looks out on the garden and the valley. Really itâs more sadness than fear I feel, but thereâs something more, something I didnât count on, a strong desire to be relieved of tormented nights, medicines, sudden crises, trips in the ambulance, hospital rooms, all the tubes and machines. I used to imagine that it all would end and I would get well, but now I know I wonât; even though they tell me theyâve found a new medication, I know that the time I have left will be exactly like now, or worse, a lot worse, as my heart grows weaker. I long to rest as I did when I was young and behind in my sleep. I would jump into bed and pull the covers over my head and close my eyes tight to get to sleep as quickly as possible. I would cover my mouth to hold back the giggles that burst out like the water in the public fountain when you pressed the copper or bronze handle down too hard. The water roared into the jar, cool and deep as the mouth of a well, all those years ago, before there was indoor plumbing and
we women went with our water jugs to the fountain high on the hill, where there were always swarms of wasps. My sister would complain that since she didnât have hips, the full jug always slid down her side. Oh, that summertime water, how I would love to wet my dry, cracked lips in it now, in the drops sweating through the cool belly of the jug, feel against my cheeks the cool beads of moisture, the pores breathing in the clay. Thatâs what I want, the only thing I want now, to fall asleep, to sink as I do when they give me a pill, or, better, a shot I can feel spreading through my bloodstream, through my whole body. Things fade: faces bending over me, beloved voices growing fainter, distant, and each time it takes a stronger effort not to let myself go along, as gently as closing your eyelids when you fall asleep.
The voices of my two daughters, and their faces so alike and so different, blend into the same sensation of tenderness and farewell, their hands clasp mine, covertly looking for my pulse when Iâm lying so still I seem to have died. I have an idea what my older daughter will think when
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