And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I am a bit of a fiend when it comes to organization and putting things in the right order in the right place. In a sense, it’s out of necessity. My life is busy-messy, and if I let one ball drop, things topple like dominoes (using two cliches and a mixed metaphor there – not bad!).
Since Michael’s death, my home has been the victim of a reorganization sweep. I understand easily where that comes from – a need to try to get my life back under my control, which of course, it never really was. But Michael’s been gone over two years now, and the sweep continues. Just when I exhale, settle in my recliner, and think it’s done, I notice something else and a new keep-throw out-donate episode ensues.
Recently, I started moving around the artwork in my home, which is extensive. I love art, and I love knowing the artists who created the artwork. Having the artwork makes me feel like I’ve helped someone make a living in an impossible field. It’s why I don’t purchase ebooks either, even when that “purchase” is free, because I know what that means for authors – little to no royalties. I’ve already said to my daughter Olivia, who rolls her eyes, that if I ever do downsize from here, it has to be a place that will still hold my books and my artwork.
She mentioned to me recently that I even have artwork hanging in my garage. I do. The artwork was stuff that I love, didn’t want to get rid of, but couldn’t find a space for on my walls. So this made me conscious of my walls. And an episode ensued.
In my classroom, I had the original artwork for my book covers, which are done by artists that I commision, and also photographs that I’ve taken and Michael also took. One cover, for my short story collection, Oddities & Endings, Michael took the photo, but the painted mannequin in the photo is my artwork. There were also other places in my home above the classroom where my book covers were framed. After studying my stairwell from the first to the second floor, I moved all the book covers, going in order of publication, of course, and so there they all are now, marching up the stairs. I’ve made arrangements to purchase the artwork for The Birth Of A Widow. However…I’m missing 9 of the 18 covers, and so I’ll be working at getting those soon.
That left blank wallspace in the classroom and in my home. Some things were just moved to new spots in the classroom, but…in came many artworks from the garage. There are only 3 left in there.
Whew.
So I sat down in my recliner, exhaled, and picked up my remote to watch an episode of The Golden Girls. I’ve never seen the show in its entirety, so it’s on my list now. Yes, even my tv watching is organized. But as I turned on my television, I glanced into my kitchen. My gaze rose to the clocks lined up on top of my cabinets.
I collect clocks. Mostly antique clocks – they have to be key-wound or chain-driven. But over the years, people have given me clocks as gifts that don’t quite fit that bill. They run on battery. When we moved here, having open above-cabinet space delighted me, and the clocks that stand on their own went on up.
And suddenly, as Dorothy and Blanche and Rose and Sophia argued on my tv, the clocks looked crowded.
The next time my son Andy came over, he obligingly climbed up on a stepstool and lowered the clocks I’d selected to find new homes. I carefully packed them in a large box. They all got loving pats. Now, there is one clock to each cabinet, a symmetrical state that makes me sigh in contentment. And all the clocks are antiques.
But there’s a benefit to this kind of organization and clean sweep. Sometimes you find something you forgot about.
Tipped over on the cabinets were two small matching gold clocks in the shape of books. When Andy handed them to me, I gasped. They were modern, run on battery…but they weren’t going anywhere.
Michael and I committed to becoming a couple over a Labor Day weekend, when I drove to Omaha and stayed with him for the first time. He moved to Wisconsin in April. In between, on Christmas, he came for a visit and he gave me a golden clock shaped like a book. That same Christmas, my kids gave me an identical clock. Michael and the kids did not know they were giving me the same thing.
But the magic of the gifts appeared when I opened the covers of the books. Inside the front and back cover of the kids’ clock were their group portraits. All three of my kids grinning at me.
And then Michael’s gift.
After Andy handed it to me, I opened the front cover first. There was Michael, twenty-seven years younger, on that Labor Day weekend. He’s standing in a cornfield at Boys Town, where he took me on an afternoon jaunt. Then I opened the back cover, and there I was, that same weekend. 36 years old. Sitting on a bench. And looking at Michael like I just can’t believe he’s real.
He was very, very real.
Since Andy took those little forgotten clocks down from the cabinets last weekend, I’ve looked at each a dozen times or more. They did not go in the give-away box. They are sitting on the mantel, under my tv. I see them every day.
I see him every day.
What a gift. Then, and now.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
