When I was a child, I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I’ve got that feeling once again
I can’t explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb.
– Pink Floyd
Pink Floyd reminds me of my brother. He listened to them often, spinning vinyl on his high-end turntable, doing their eclectic sounds justice by amplifying through expensive speakers. He loved music as much as he loved Marlboro Lights, vanilla ice cream, and Monday night football.
My bereaved colleague reminds me of my brother, too. The one whose 42-year old wife died of cancer this spring. From a rare form of melanoma which infiltrated her body and brain. He looks like my brother, with the same smile and facial mannerisms. I went to his wife’s memorial service in Redmond last week. At Marymoor, the place where I’ve run my dogs too many times to count. She left behind a five-year old and a ten-year old. The similarities to my story left me raw. In retreat. But I did manage to write something despite this, an exercise assigned in my writing workshop. Here it is, in full below, preceded by a video clip where I think through my process out loud to my best friend, Laura. We’ve communicated over the past few years via Marco Polo video calls and I think this juxtaposition is interesting because one thing I’ve noticed in my writing is that my voice is serious and somber, where when I talk about my past in person, I’m much more flippant, sarcastic, and irreverent. And I wonder why. Why don’t I write with a sense of David Sedaris-like humor instead of melancholic moroseness? How can I be so witty and funny when talking about these things in person but then code-switch to a language of numb, flat sadness when I speak through pen and page?
Untitled.
The distance from Leadville to Farmington is 294 miles. But she doesn’t remember stopping. Not to pee or to get gas or to grab a bite to eat. But of course they must have stopped. Maybe in Salida, to say goodbye to Lissa. Or in Buena Vista to get a Slurpee at Seven Eleven. Or in Pagosa Springs for a hamburger or at the A&W in Durango for a frosted root beer. Surely they stopped in Durango….
All she remembers is being small and 10. Small and 10 next to his tall and 27.
Sitting behind her big brother, hugging his waist on that powerful, dangerous machine. He loved motorcycles and decided that she would ride with him on the move from 10,000 to 5,000 feet. Tiffany and Michelle rode with Laura Lee in the U-Haul. But she went with him on his forest green touring bike, a big, loud Kawasaki with comfortable seats for two and mufflers that gleamed like musical instruments. The green complemented his red hair. And hers, too. It sat parked outside the trailer most of the time, next to Laura Lee’s dirt bike and her brother Reb’s orange GMC truck; she inherited it when he died. Her bike was a Honda with huge springs mounted near the tires and a silver gas tank. When she wasn’t cold and mean, she was spontaneous and fun and would take all of them for crazy jumps on dirt mounds between the railroad tracks and the trailer park.
The patches of snow on the banks of Wolf Creek Pass yielded to mud and green shoots. The mountains blurred by and her own copper hair blew across her face, sticking to her mouth. She heard nothing but wind and the sound of the throttle as he geared up and down in timing with the grade signs and runaway truck ramps. She felt the vibration of the asphalt in her seat and the G forces pushing her skinny little body one way as the strong smooth bike went another, maintaining equilibrium. She looked down at 60 miles per hour over curved edges at rocks and spruce trees hundreds of feet below. She looked up at granite, aspens, sun, and blue.
Riding a motorcycle is a dangerous thing. Riding a motorcycle over the Continental Divide with a child outfitted in meager protective gear is even more dangerous. But no more dangerous than growing up without parents. They were still trying to reduce speed and maintain control after the runaway truck that was their mother’s illness and death. Everyday challenges that barely registered for a child with loving parents were hairpin curves for these orphaned five. Icy hairpin curves with no guardrails. Mountain passes with no runaway truck ramps. Colorado skies with no blue. Their mother’s death resulted in a shift of tectonic plates equally jagged, profound, and long lasting as that range of mountains that is the Continental Divide.
Analyzing.
Things That Nourished My Writing: May 21-June 5.
FILM
Patsy Mink: Ahead of the Majority
FOOD
Iced Honey Lavender Matcha Latte at Root.
My MilkRun box.
LITERARY
Heavy by Kiese Laymon
MUSIC
One of my Shazam playlists.
PLACES
Occidental Square. One of the loveliest spots in the city.