Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

One of my pseudo daughters called yesterday to say she was feeling sad, so I agreed to run over and commiserate, even though that meant leaving the painter guy alone in the house to snoop, steal, or turn on the heat gun and burn the house down.

As I drove through the sunless drizzle, I let my sadness wash over me like the rain washing over my windshield. It was A’s first day by herself since her mom died. She told me that she stood outside on the deck and cried for about ten minutes, shouting out her mom’s name and yelling as loudly as she could that she missed her and wished she would come back. I know I’m only a mom substitute, but I since didn’t want her to keep feeling like a motherless child, I offered to play the piano while she played along on her violin. We slowly limped through a Schumann song together, even though I haven’t played the piano in over fifteen years. Afterwards, she played me some Bach on her violin, while I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the melody. When she was done, we went into the kitchen, leaned over the counter and tore apart a pomegranate. Since I haven’t eaten one in ages, it was a new and exciting experience for me. As we picked out crimson seeds, sucked off the juice and spit out the remains, we traded stories, exchanged a few tears, and soon came to realize we both felt a little better.

I felt so useful and productive that I offered to load up the trunk with the six bags of food A no longer wanted in her mom’s pantry, so I could drop them off at the town food bank. The woman at the desk was delighted at my generosity, until I told her why I had so much food to donate. Why do people say, “I’m sure she’s in a better place, now” when I tell them my friend is no longer alive? How is death a “better place”? I think of it as emptiness, a black hole of nothingness. I didn’t say this to the well-meaning woman, but I wanted to shout it at her. Where’s that death manual when I need it?

I had to force myself to return to Disasterville, my paint dust-covered hellhole. When I opened the back door, loud music hit my ears. It was blaring from the painter guy’s boom box, which he must’ve brought in when I left. He was humming along as he expanded his path of destruction. He only works until 4:30, so I had exactly six more minutes of loud music and humming to put up with. You can’t imagine how happy I was to stop hearing Don McLean belting out Bye, Bye Miss American Pie, one of my least favorite songs of all time.

At 4:30 on the dot, he turned off the radio and started taking his supplies outside to his car. As soon as he was gone, baby, gone, I swooped down and cleaned up his mess. I cleaned until the cows came home, because there was paint dust on every surface imaginable (and even some that were unimaginable).

Just think, I get to do this all over again on Monday, Tuesday and forevermore. I’ll keep you posted on my lead paint absorption rates and doorknob hunting adventures. 

Joy to the fishes in the big blue sea.