Tag: grief

#38: Antioch Express

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Salt of the Earth

Nashville MTA Route 38
Image: Nashville MTA

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot” (5:13). Salt, as Jesus proclaims, is flavor. In the south, we agree. Pots of Sunday beans and greens are often seasoned with salty pork. Whether ham hock or fatback, pintos and turnip leaves soak up the essence of their cooking company. In the south and beyond, salt shakers are a functional piece of dining room décor. Packets are included with to-go plasticware. Grocery stores sell kosher for the ideal seasoning of meat, sea for a less-processed option, pickling for cucumbers, rock for ice cream, and table varieties for my dad, who salts everything before tasting. Some companies offer bacon-flavored and Himalayan Pink options. Epsom salt, when used in a bath, is said to detoxify the body. Dissolved in warm water and gargled, salt is believed to ease a sore throat. In all of its forms, salt is part of a process. From sprinkling to cooking to eating to soaking, salt is story.

I noticed some of my own flavored memories one Wednesday morning as I cleaned tears from the lenses of my red frames. The night before, in my binge-watching Ally McBeal phase, I wept over the death of a character named Marty. He was a nursing home resident and the joy of its being. He organized dances and sported bow ties as he twirled his fancy feet partners to the tunes of Ella and Frank. To Marty, every woman was a darling, every man gentle. All were friends. And when Marty experienced (unrecognized and undiagnosed) disillusionment in the form of dragons and cyclopes and other fantastic creatures, he offered them as adventures to his lady and fellow companions. Every night at 7:30p.m., Marty and his crew would turn out the lights, gather in twos and threes, and search the home for these imaginative invaders. His friends were delighted to have a quest in a place where much of their time was spent waiting for it to pass. Marty brought life and laughter to men and women who had been missing its taste.

When Marty died, his friends and I gave our salty tears to tissues and the earth. Continue reading “#38: Antioch Express” →

#56: Gallatin Pike/BRT Lite

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 Rachel Weeping

#56
Image: Nashville MTA

I bought the dress for a first date.

Tea-length, navy blue, and decorated in white, beige, and coral polka dots, it’s A-line design accentuated my curves and gave me just enough of a pop to stand apart from the crowd at Neighbors, the Murphy Road bar where I first met Michael for a few drinks, a long conversation, and an even longer goodnight kiss.

The polka dots worked, at least for a little while.

Michael was smart, handsome, and financially responsible. And though he was within reach of paying off his mortgage before turning 40, he did not own hand soap or, from what I observed, a broom. He did, however, play guitar. That helped me overlook the  unswept floors, as did his ownership of the Comic Book Bible. The latter also invited me to browse his home library. That was and remains standard practice in my dating game: show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.

His was a lot of Shakespeare:

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in the sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
~Much Ado About Nothing (2.3.64-67)

Just over 400 years later, writers from my musical library drew from one of Sir William’s most well-known comedies to remind us that even with centuries of practice, grown-up love can still be a challenge:

Sigh no more, no more
One foot in sea, one on shore
My heart was never pure
You know me
You know me
~Mumford & Sons, “Sigh No More”

Deceiver? Sometimes.

Never pure? I choose to believe Michael was pure, at least for a little while, and especially during the second and only other vivid memory I have of wearing that polka dot dress.  Continue reading “#56: Gallatin Pike/BRT Lite” →

#60: Blue Circuit

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Relics

My first senior year of college was a memorable first senior year, and my favorite of my “four years in only five” undergraduate university experience. My roommate, a close friend since our freshwoman days when we bonded over cigarettes and romantic naivety, had recently experienced heartbreak when her nearly three-year relationship came to an adulterous end. To commemorate what had been or, more accurately, what remained, she created a body outline, in masking tape, on our 5 x 8 area rug. The rug was classic dorm flooring décor with its rough texture and open invitation, by way of its dark burgundy color, for mixed drink spills. There were many an Apple Pie Shot (half apple juice, half vodka, topped with whip cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon; shoot, swish, swallow) poured both inside and outside the lines of my friend’s rug body outline. There were also many cigarette ashes layered in among its course weave. And inside the outline of Lisa en mask there was a relic, a broken heart. 

It was hers to remember. 

By October of 2001, the body outline was under the watch of an oversized, plastic, Halloween bat that hung above our television until the end of the academic year and Lisa’s graduation. I did not want to come back to my second senior year without her. She was the first one to tell me that a plane had flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. She was the one who had introduced me to a man I would marry, and later divorce. She was the one who joined me on Superbowl Sunday for a TLC special about same-sex weddings and the one who had first shown me The Crow, Brandon Lee version/the only one that matters. She was the one who would army crawl across her own body outline to look for signs of feet outside the door when we were trying to hide from everyone. She was the one to welcome me back from night class to a solo New Year’s Eve celebration, complete with Kenny G’s “Auld Lang Syne” and cheap wine, both on repeat. It was not December 31st, but she needed the year to be over. 

For a night, it was. 

Rituals, even the last-minute, mellow saxophone type, are cathartic. Honoring a life, grieving a love, or bidding farewell to a possibility asks much of our hearts. Tears and words and music and gatherings give us a means of lightening the load, if only for a little while. 

Then there’s fire.  Continue reading “#60: Blue Circuit” →