Between Things

Yesterday, my mom and I visited my stepfather, Dick, a kind, funny, sharp man who happens to be writing the last chapter of his life.  Over the last year, he and my mom have been separated more than once by medical circumstances.  Each separation has left them filled with longing for the other.  That longing would be sweet if it weren't so wrenching to witness.

And now, in this latest separation, it is hard not to see the whorls of endnotes swirling around them, as my mom cuts up bite-sized pieces of fried egg to feed to the man she loves.  Here in this room that is both comfortable and foreign, two people lucky enough to have found each other struggle with desires that vacillate between companionship and release. While I am glad to be here with them, I also am fully aware that I am the interloper, pulling precious energy away from where it should be--between the two of them.

I listen as Dick tells stories that are both detailed and dream-like, speaking of them as though recalling an event from the night before.   He has always been a terrific storyteller, a man who relishes the nuances.  And--always--there is a well-delivered punchline, an unexpected twist at the end.  This time, it is that he found himself in a room with Laura Bush.

In fact, he was in a room with Sally Shepard Raglin Marshall (names earned and cherished in her 88 years of living) and Jane Raglin Holt (a shorter yet still-appreciated strand of happy evidence).  And it was obvious that this was a time to be cherished, a moment in which to be fully present, even if I was the sore thumb, the reluctant escort, the unsteady stenographer transposing these quiet moments played out in a small room in the middle of everywhere.