The Things We Carried
I’ve been hesitating to write an update for some time now. I
fear sounding like a broken record. It has been nine months since all the magic
and the trauma that happened last November, yet in my heart it happens over and
over each day. A few months ago, people stopped asking “how are you?” with a special emphasis and a
concerned look in their eyes. We’re back to the quick “how are you” in one
breath that doesn’t really expect a response. It is normal, and in a way it
makes things easier, but nine months are a blink of an eye when you’ve lost
someone who has loved you for thirty years. It is a friend’s e mail that
encouraged me, saying that sharing my experience of loss has helped her.
Perhaps, we always look for that shared human experience. When I was in Needham
in June to help my mother move to a new house, she shared that the real world
works on deadlines and calendars, but sometimes we just need a day to be sad.
In those days, we function, but the hole in us is a bit bigger. Sometimes this
emptiness makes us kinder, more open, and willing to receive, since there is a
space to fill.
When I reached Needham in June, my mother and her friends
had already done a lot of work on clearing out our home. The house looked like
a page in an Ikea catalogue. It was strange arriving in a home that didn’t
really look like our home anymore. As we packed, the things that weren’t moved
yet meant so much more. The world map on his office wall and the drawers filled
with old cell phone and batteries made me feel like time didn’t cheat us of our
beloved Abush and he was coming back. It was hard to let go of things. Sure,
without him things are just things, but there were so many untold stories
behind boxes of business cards he kept and notebooks filled with terrible
handwriting. I found his notes from his trip to visit me in Ecuador. On one
page he just wrote:
Inbal with the host
family = wonderful
That made me cry, and also feel proud. Going through his
office was almost like talking to him. He made me laugh with funny cards he
wrote my mother. He kept all our financial records and I remembered how
whenever we talked of anything financial he used to say, “Ha Bank Shomeha - the
bank hears you!” referring to himself. A
proud father, he kept all our school records and awards. Mostly though, it was
heart-breaking, pulling apart our home when we should have been all together
enjoying Daniela.
We went through things slowly. The slowness was essential.
We needed to go through everything so that even if we could not keep the items,
which was crucial given the smaller space, we could hold onto the memories.
There are items that triggered memories, and our fear was letting them go
without holding on to those memories. The packing became an exercise of letting
go of things, while holding on to everything we could in our hearts. Even with
this recognition, it was hard to let go of things that were his, but we had to.
He simply kept everything: coins, post cards, coasters, hotel note books,
business cards, stamps, national geographics… The constant fear being that if
we don’t have enough room in our houses for the things he kept, will we always
have enough room in our hearts? I have learned now that we do, that the heart
expands and even now, our love for Abush grows. I still admire how he lived
life. I found boxes and boxes of pictures, filled with pictures and Costco
envelopes. Abush labeled the film developing envelopes with a yellow
highlighter so they were easy to find. I packed hundred of pictures, keeping
them to make albums someday. All our special moments as a family sitting in
boxes, because in Aba’s life we were too busy living. Now that he is gone,
we’ll make time for the boxes.
The final days were the hardest. We really had to let go of
so much. Somehow, it felt insulting when the stuff of your life is bargained
for, appraised. Some things we couldn’t even give away for free, like our
happiness isn’t good enough for someone else. Towards the end, cleaning out the
house and finding many things from our childhoods and life with Aba and
throwing out alcohol wipes, hand sanitizers, medical tape, syringes, and boxes
of pills, felt like going back in time to a time that he was healthy. Yet, the
last years of his life, the years of his illness, were also some of the best
years in our life. We were all convinced that we could win and we were happy. We
don’t want to throw out those years, like he might come back and we’ll take him
in again, gladly, even if he still has cancer.
On the final morning, I sat on the stoop and thought of our
coffees there, on his bed and thought of the Sunday mornings we all jumped in,
in the basement and laughed at the time we cleaned sewage backup with hospital
gloves and masks. Aba was still everywhere in the house, and yet within hours,
we would be in a new place that he doesn’t know, and we carried him there with
the things we were able to carry. We sat outside the house that wasn’t our home
anymore, and headed to a new house that will become a home, where memories of
Aba will come alive, not from the walls, but from our hearts. In that last day,
as I sat outside with Daniela, watching the movers and keeping her out of the
chaos, a butterfly came and sat on my Aba’s favorite tiger lilies. It sat
there, beautiful, calm, so unlike the storm in my heart. Though I long for a
sign from Abush, it was hard for me to believe, but still it was nice to stop
on a stressful day to take pictures, to enjoy life, marvel at its beauty, the
way Aba always had.
After the big move, we took a few days to enjoy time
together. We went to the Needham fireworks, which are the best. We spent a day
with friends by a beautiful lake. The day at the lake, in between this hectic
visit and a busy time back in Uganda, felt a bit sad. My Aba always joked that
for all his hard work fighting the cancer, how come he wasn’t getting time off
for good behavior? We did so much work moving, how come we didn’t get time
together with him for all our efforts.
Back in Uganda, things have been good. Daniela is growing so
fast. She sits, stands, walks holding things, chews with her eight teeth,
claps, laughs, and talks to herself in her own language. She changes everyday,
and she teaches me that each day comes with opportunities to learn something
new. In her honor and with my Aba’s inspirations, I’ve been trying to make the
most of each day. I’ve been doing a lot more writing, and I really enjoy it. I
created a page for my writing on facebook so you can check out some of what I
am working on there. I also did a writing workshop with high school students
and it was so much fun. The students had fun stories and they were proud of
writing a complete story. We all have stories to tell, and I love doing
activities that make all of us feel like storytellers. We also took a family
trip to Gulu and Lira. In Lira, we visited Pia’s village, which was so
interesting. I am putting below a short piece I wrote about the visit. We
attended a huge wedding of over 5,000 people, which was quite the experience.
Thanks for being in my life.
Inbal
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Travel reflection: There is something about traveling that
always makes me reflect. This travel reflection is about what we mean by home.
For me, home has always been a complicated question. I hope the short story
below makes you think about what home means to you.
Is this the way home?
Since I have known Pia and Roweena, they have talked about
their village.
The sweet maize from the village.
The soft cassava.
The dark nights.
The fresh air.
“It is real village,” Pia often says, as if some of the
other villages I have visited are less real, or more developed.
Finally, this weekend, thanks to a wedding in Gulu, we got
the chance to travel with Pia and Roweena to Northern Uganda and take an extra
day to travel to the village.
I was surprised when Pia asked if we could take a cousin who
knows the way better than she does. “It’s only my 3rd time coming
here,” Pia explained, a bit apologetically.
There was no room in the car, so we proceeded on our own. The dirt road
was bumpy, really bumpy; twice we had to drive through a stream. The sun was
hot with very few clouds in the sky, the heat unforgiving, even in the air
conditioned car. We were all eager to reach. After an hour and a half of
driving, Pia asked if we could pull over to ask for directions. Again, I was
surprised.
“Is this the way to Otuke?”
The old man on the bicycle, his skin shining from sweat,
indicated that we should proceed straight.
Almost an hour later, Pia was watching closely through the
tall grasses trying to find her grandfather’s compound. “Here it is,” Roweena
helped as we almost missed the turn. We pulled into a nice clearing in the grass,
a few grass-thatched roofs, a few graves, scattered trees, a few cement ruins,
and fields all around. Pia breathed in deeply. “We’re here, I was the most
nervous in the car that we would not find the place.” We looked around, enjoyed
the nice breeze in the shade, and saw Pia’s plot of land, which she bought
recently after years of saving money. As we walked to Pia’s field, with the
soft music of an adongo accompanying us, we were introduced to many members of
the family’s clan.
The day after, when we visited more of Pia’s family who
lives in Lira Town, her uncle gave us more of the family context. The family
had moved from the village when Pia was very young, a baby, because of cow
rustling from neighboring Karamoja. After some time, the family returned and
left again as violence in the northern region pushed them farther way. The
family only moved back to the village three years ago. The cement ruins we saw
are all that is left of their old home. Pia’s first time back in the village
was for her grandmother’s funeral this year. Yet, it is home, deep in her heart
it is home, even if we had to ask strangers on the way for directions.
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| The many expressions of Daniela |
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| The butterfly on Aba's flowers |
