A Liminal Space
By Pat Gallagher
Where am I now? Nowhere. Not there nor here. Grief is like that.
The Time Remaining
By Pat Gallagher
The first time the finite nature of human existence entered my mind was a remark uttered by the writer Harris Dulany in 1970. Harris and his wife Barry and their two young daughters were friends of mine. At the time they were living in a rambling brownstone in Fort Greene in Brooklyn. Harris had worked at the Strand Bookstore, famous for its collection and size. He said one day he’d had an epiphany when he was at the bookstore. Gazing at the enormous collection he realized that if he read a book a day he would die before he could read them all. I don’t know why I still remember this incident but the image of books representing the days of a life was compelling. Compared to the thousands of books on hundreds of shelves a lifetime is a very short shelf indeed.
Just Do It!
By Pat Gallagher
What have I always wanted to try? Nothing comes quickly to mind. It probably says something about me that I have a much longer list of things I have absolutely no desire to try: sky-diving, bungee-jumping, para-sailing, scuba diving…the list goes on. I was reminded of this the other day when I saw the photo of my 25-yr-old grandson facing a concrete climbing wall at Twente University in the Netherlands. The 100-foot-high wall is studded with hundreds of colorful hand and toe holds that allow the climber to scale the wall in different ways. In the photo Rik is harnessed up, waiting to ascend. It is his first time.
Acting My Age
By Pat Gallagher
The memory of doing cartwheels with abandon when I was ten years old gives me the shivers now. Watching young children running pell-mell down a slope, tumbling and bouncing back up is distressing. Did I ever do that? I must have. I do remember the Band-Aids and mercurochrome on skinned knees. For many years I didn’t hesitate to lift small children, set ‘em on my hip, sling a bag over my shoulder, and maneuver a stroller down a set or stairs. Now it’s an achievement to simply descend the stairs. Now, lifting my 10-inch cast iron skillet from the drawer beneath the oven requires conscious attention to placing my feet carefully, bending at the hip crease to protect my back, engaging core muscles to protect the rest of my joints, and remembering to breathe. Isn’t it amazing that the breath is such an important element in all this. And “core”? Who knew? Why did no one tell me this seventy-five years ago?! No need then, I guess.
The Consolation Of Solitude
By Pat Gallagher
“I vont to be alone”, Swedish-born film star Greta Garbo is reputed to have said. It’s all I remember of her. Never saw any of her films; didn’t understand the mystique surrounding her. I thought she was odd. Did she marry? Have a lover? Have children? I’d no idea, but her desire to be alone seemed an aberration. I was young then. It would be a long time before I understood.
Grief Interrupted
By Pat Gallagher
It has been a year now since Peter lost his struggle to breathe, his heart and lungs no longer able to bear the strain of fighting against the aggressive Parkinson’s disease that ravaged his body and mind for 12 years. A year since I’d stood at his bedside that night in mid-October staring at the gray corpse that hours earlier had been my brother. I sobbed convulsively, “He suffered so much,” I howled. My husband held me. Our youngest brother Michael choked back tears.
On Not Getting Down To Write
By Pat Gallagher
I think this morning, after I check the headlines and start the laundry, I’ll get going on a couple of pieces of writing I have in mind. Exploratory things. One, an account of my year in Walthamstow, East London over 40 years ago; a year of robust immigration to the UK of British Subjects from India and Pakistan. I was living in Manor Park, E. 12, and teaching reading in a primary school in E. 17. The idea for this piece was sparked by a news story I’d recently read about the arrest of several putative airplane bomb plotters from Walthamstow . I think I’ll see if I have anything to say about that so I begin:
IF
By Pat Gallagher
We are sitting in the living room, the late afternoon sun making its way toward the horizon, casting a warm glow on the walls. My son and I have been chatting, catching up on family news. He is about to leave when we are startled by what sounds like an escalating argument on the street below.
In Flight
By Pat Gallagher
We have boarded in Rome. He is already seated in his leather Business Class reclining window seat, a glass of champagne on the little pull-out table. I have the aisle seat and nod to him, offer a brief greeting and busy myself with settling in for the long trans-Atlantic flight. The flight attendant comes around and –it being only 10:00 in the morning –opt for orange juice. My companion, probably in his 50s, leans forward and takes a second glass of champagne. The attendant pauses, looking intently at him, and says, “Weren’t you just here yesterday?” Oh, those business fliers, I think, back and forth, up and down. No wonder he needs two glasses of champagne before breakfast. He nods at the attendant, who is poised to offer a snappy reply, and says softly, “My mother has died – while I was flying to Rome. I got the message when I landed. I have to go home– right away.” The attendant, visibly jolted, takes a couple of beats and offers her condolences.
Salvation
By Pat Gallagher
It’s been a very long day. This morning, intending to walk to the Piazza Venezia, for shopping and lunch somewhere nearby, I set off from the train station at Piazzale Flaminio. In the wrong direction. Again. My son warned me, the first time I’d embarked on an exploration of Rome, not to orient myself by the Tevere, the ancient river that snakes its way across the eternal city. It is very easy to get disoriented. He, having lived in Italy for most of his adult life, was right. Again. I’d walked straight down the Via del Corso toward the Piazza Venezia. But, turning left at some point instead of right, I’d crossed the river twice, ending up in the hills above the Vatican, far from my destination in a residential neighborhood bereft of cafes and bars where I could sit, rest up from my meandering, and have a bite to eat. I walk and walk, further and further from my original destination. This journey has now become my destination. And while the neighborhoods are leafy and homes quite lovely this is not where I want to be. I am tired, beyond hunger. My head is beginning to ache and I must sit down.