November 20, 2003

• A Series of Disjointed Autobiographical Entries, pt. II
  Part I

  My neighbors to the north, the ones whose home was attached to ours were very quiet people. I remember Mrs. G quite clearly; hair gone white, a fair, wrinkled face. Quick and alert eyes, her spine holding her tall, slim body proudly as she walked sure footed to and from those places the grown ups used to go. The deli, the market, the laundromat. Always a smile for the kids who were being good, or sharp words for when we weren't.
  Mr. G was more reclusive, only to be seen (by me) in the Jurassic garden of his back yard. Like his wife, he was white haired, tall and noble in posture. The yard was almost as secretive as he was. Flowers, impossible with their height, blocked the view and gave me only green stemmed tiger striped glimpses of his profile walking to and fro. He would spend time tending the flowers or the big leafy plants and on rare occasions, the monolithic cherry tree.
  Late summer comes and the smell was intense. The cherries have been dropping from their tree; way too many to gather and consume. The raspberries have been dropping from the tree in our yard. The smell was cloying in the dead heat. Too heady, too rich.
  The dropped berries and cherries stained the small cement walks, my sneakers and bare feet, their garage roof in small smears and spots of purple hues.
  Their garage, like the rest of their yard, was huge. The double doors were green gone light and bright and cracked with sun fade. When the doors were open, I could hear Mr. G working; a thump of lumber, clinks and clanks of tools, the buzzing snoring of a saw. A small four paned window gave me glimpses into his shadowy work.
  One year, I hadn't seen Mr. G for latter half of the summer. In the way that children are, I hadn't thought to ask or to be concerned much. Maybe I did think of it, but it flitted through and out of my head in the time it took me to walk from the back door and jump in the pool.
  Late into autumn, I saw Mr. G again. I was in our back yard, playing one of the nameless games made up by an only child.
  I'd looked into the garage window, directly at Mr. G's face. Our eyes had met directly and held. I remember him looking much older, his expression unreadable. We stared.
  Then he stepped away from the window, away from my sight.
  Autumn turned to winter, then on into spring. No one tended the garden, but it grew. It grew huge and wild and into riotous green and flowers.
  Spring turned to summer, and I asked my mother where Mr. G has been.
  She crouched, eye to eye with me. "Oh honey, Mr. G was very sick. He's gone to Heaven now."
  The thought of him being gone, gone forever, made me miss him. His unobtrusive presence as I shot make-believe enemies, mined for make-believe gold, or dug my way to China. It made me sad to think that he'd gotten so sick he'd died. It made me sad to think that no one would gather his cherries and share them with us vicariously through his wife. It made me sad that his wife wouldn't have a husband any more.
  I talked to my mother about it. I talked to my father about it. I didn't understand, but I'd wanted to. Eventually, I understood and learned maybe too much.
  I found out that one winter night, Mr. G had hung himself from a rafter in his garage. Mrs. G had found him the next morning.

  • 9:54 pm
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