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#russia #putin #ukraine #war
It’s May Day. For my family, it’s the anniversary of one of the worst days of our lives, when my kind, literary, animal-loving mother-in-law died in a house fire. Eighteen years later I can still barely think of it. But it’s one of those days that arrives every year with a black vibration. It’s a story with the classic elements of tragedy: the pieces set in place well in advance for what was to happen.
She always joked about what a terrible cook she was, and we laughed, too, because it was true. She was always burning something. And she was highly security conscious, even though we lived in an almost crime-free environment. She believed she was safer when she wore the key to her dead bolt lock on a chain around her neck. More than once I urged her to get the kind of dead bolt with the inside latch so she could get out quickly if she needed to, but she was, for all her fundamental kindness, a stubborn woman, and highly independent. She brushed me off. So many times I think back on how I should have insisted. I should have pushed. I should have bossed her.
I didn’t.
That night, since I was out of town, she was making dinner for Charlie and the boys. She started to burn something on the stove, and as she pushed it off the burner toward the back, her arm crossed the fire, and her dangling sleeve caught fire. She did not drop and roll. She ran to the bathroom and tried to get into the shower, but apparently could not put out the flames. Then she ran to the locked front door, her key around her neck. Fumbling for that damned chain was the last thing she did. The smoke overwhelmed her. The firemen found her by the front door.
I had just arrived in Washington D.C. for a meeting when I got the call. I had left my phone in my room while I went for a walk on a beautiful spring day. I got back to a voice mail from the local police department. As I returned the call, I was trembling, knowing it was something terrible, thinking it was Charlie, the boys. But the reality was just as bad. My colleague re-packed my bags, while I explained to the president’s secretary why I wasn’t going to be at the foundation board meeting. She arranged for everything. The last flight had left for Milwaukee, so they flew me into Chicago and had a car pick me up. In less than half an hour I was in a cab on my way to the airport. I called my mom and dad. The cab driver couldn’t help but hear the conversation and treated me such kindness and compassion. All I could think of was getting home. Of being with Charlie. Of not crying in public.
I don’t remember much that night, just my husband wrapped in unspeakable grief. In the days and weeks that followed, our ordeal was compounded by news coverage. We didn’t turn on the radio or watch any television. We dealt with our grief by walking. We walked every day—once, memorably, for ten miles. Moving and talking were the only things we had. Sitting and thinking was unbearable. It was a horror too big to contemplate.
Seven years later, as I was writing my first novel, I was up on Washington Island with the dogs, racing to reach the carefully mapped-out ending of my book in my limited vacation time. Then one morning I woke up, and in a flurry of writing I don’t recall having either before or since, I began to write a scene I had not planned, had not imagined, but which flowed out of my heart like a flood. I could not put the words down fast enough. It was as vivid as watching a movie in my head. By the end of the day, my first book was finished, and in a way I had never contemplated.
It wasn’t until days later that I realized it had been on May 1st. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know.
I write this from the distance of time. Grief never leaves us, but it changes. It becomes a companion to our lives that approaches and recedes. Kay’s tragedy no longer looms, but it’s woven into the paths of our lives, a thing to be encountered, sometimes predictably, sometimes not. Today we will remember her, and try to focus on her shy smile, her long—sometimes excessively detailed—accounts of the books she was reading, her generosity, her tremendous courage and perseverance, her simple, Montana kindness. She was a lovely, gentle woman.
We loved her. We love her still.
These posts are about finding the beauty in daily life, even amid the craziness, uncertainty, and anxiety. Reality is not going away, but these are the only days we get, so we have to relish their small beauties while we have them. If you are a paid subscriber, please know how deeply grateful I am for your support. The kindness and enthusiasm of your comments buoy me and keep me writing, but the paid subscriptions are an extra vote of confidence I truly appreciate. These posts will always be free, however, so if all you can do is share, that is helpful, too. Whatever you decide, I’m glad you’re here.
