THE INSTALLMENT PLAN

Grief comes on the installment plan. You pay now. You pay later. But grief floats in time. When you think of it, it's always now.

27 October - The Beginning and the End

The first and last day. Darkness circled the day. You said there was something wrong. You were bleeding. But it stopped. You would find out more.

14 November - Divination

The magicians and sorcerers are consulting. No one knows anything.

25 November - Death by Possibility

Thanksgiving. We are worried, not thankful. We pretend. You know the secret but you don't want to ruin the holiday. The holiday is already ruined with the possibility.

2 December - An Answer

The sorcerers have spoken: Exorcism by knife.

25 December - As if

We have Christmas as if.... As if it will be our last. As if the only Christmas ever. The colored lights are bright. You spend every moment with your grand-daughter as if it is your last meal. No fewer than 20 gifts for her, but she spends the day playing with a box of ribbons and bows. This is your laugh that I remember.

12 January - Three Weeks

And the demons that are driven out of a house come back in greater numbers than before. Three weeks. But they don't know. Three weeks, they think.

1 March - The Black Market

You are resolved to fight it. We learn about the other black market, about apricot pits, about Jason Winters tea. I buy things in brown paper pages from under the counter.

11 March - Dug you Digging Me in Mexico

Now we are smugglers.

4 April - Handling It Spiritually

You have decided to "handle it spiritually". But it is a physical thing. There's always someone to take your money.

But you are more hopeful than I have seen you. So perhaps we are buying hope. Money well spent, probably.

21 April - You Can't Beat a 1

You can't beat a 1. Not a first birthday party. Your grand-daughter is 1. She rolls on the floor in her white eyelet birthday dress while you talk on your Hamm radio. There is so much pain in your eyes. But you can't beat a 1.

13 May - Warm Days

There are some good days, and some not good days. Things seem to get better. I visit when I can. We go for drives up Figueroa Mountain and out by Nojoqui Falls. You remind me how when I was little I thought it was Mirkwood...

18 May - Work-a-Day World

You are able to work. You have more work to do for the band, Edward Bear. I make up names for trusts. All our days are sweet.

2 June - You Are Now 55 Years Old

Today, we do poetry. I make you a "box of love" for your birthday and put stars in it. My mother wonders why I gave you an empty box, but you saw it.

When I was a little girl, the first thing you had me learned by heart was "Annabel Lee". A dark poem for a pre-schooler. No filling your daughter's mind with garbage. And here I am, sitting in the early morning dark and still chanting.

1 August - Freeway Songs

More trips to Mexico. Remission becomes the most beautiful word. We are on borrowed time. We know it. We sing along with oldies.

13 September - Go Fish

The fishing is best at Cachuma early in the morning. Do you remember how when I was a little girl you would quiz me on classic law cases. Thompson v. New York Central - and I had to adjudicate responsibility. "Now you're thinking like a lawyer."

27 October - Hell-i-versary

It's been a year. You're still here. But the good days are fewer between, and the bad days are worse. You can't read any more, you can't focus through the pain. You spend your days on the couch, watching Get Smart re-runs. But it doesn't matter. Anywhere with you is good enough.

2 November - Comes Chris

Chris comes to visit. I find him a day-glo painted Indian head at a garage sale for his birthday. It is a happy day.

Later, I find in your journal that you wanted me to marry him. He's a very angry man. I am sure I was delivered. But I regret it, because you wanted it.

26 December - Martin Paradis

We spend the weekend going through southern California phone books. We call every Paradis looking for Martin, your buddy on Guadalcanal. You want to tell him that you love him, without saying the words, the way men love each other.

We find his father. Martin was killed on Guadalcanal the day after you were taken away injured. You cry deep heaving sobs. I have rarely seen you cry. All the possible futures.

18 January - If you just work hard enough...

I am still working at the drug rehab center. My stable datum is: If you just work hard enough at what you know is right, somehow everything will work out okay for everyone.

I have done this my whole life, despite all the evidence that things don't work out okay for everyone. We are getting so tired.

16 February - First Goodbyes

We dance around the subject without saying a word.

We talk about Justice.

26 April - Magical Thinking

Driving along the ocean in Ventura, I consider the possibility that you might die. It feels like such a betrayal . As if somehow, if I didn't think it, it couldn't happen. And now, I've let the devil in my universe. I am god of my universe, am I not? So what hath god wrought?

8 May - The Never-Ending Field Trip

You thought you were dying today. You were taken away in an ambulance. You said you tried to write me a letter. I found it. All it said was "8 May" -- and the rest of the page was blank. But I heard you.

30 May - Tears for Thoughts

The drugs. You cry because you cannot think. You lose your thoughts mid-sentence. You lose your words.

A brilliant lawyer. Even today, I find your old cases in West on the net.

2 June - Ice Cream Sundae

It's your birthday. I bring you your last ice cream sundae. We are saying our last goodbyes. Over and over.

Your grand-daughter sits next to you in your hospital bed. She draws you pictures. You tell me your regrets. You say you'll miss not being able to watch your grand-daughter grow up. I'll miss that, too.

Mom is tired. She will not let you come home.

9 July - I lived for you

You said, "I lived for you." It wasn't a casual statement. And you did.

You loved me through all the betrayals, forgave all my bad-girl sins. You knew who I was before I did.

I have tried so hard to be worth that. To be someone you would be proud of. To love as big as you did. To make lover bigger than betrayal. To love despite all the reasons people give you not to. To create the new civilization with the person in front of me. But I don't know really.

3 August - There's No Place Like Home

You want to come home. Mom can't or won't do it. I shouldn't blame her, but I do. I always do.

I think I should quit my job and come home to take care of you. You tell me no. And I listen to you. But you were wrong. I should have done that. I didn't follow my heart. I regret nothing more.

18 August - Life by Journal

You write down everything. When you take your medication, when the nurses make their rounds, who comes to visit.

You are stoned. You write: "Dearest Christine, Here I am writing in my journal and blip... blip... blip... There you were. I love you." But I don't find it until you're gone.

8 September - Morphine

You are on morphine. Once every four hours. The first hour, you are a singing junky. Then an hour of strong emotions and tears. Then two hours of screaming in agony.

Now I want you to die. I want you free.

21 September - But Still Will Not Die

You are so thin. I am shocked when I see you. You are my father and I recognize you because I know your ears.

You are worried about what will happen to me without you. So am I. But I promise you I will be okay. I can take care of myself. It was a lie, but I made it true.

26 October - I'm Dying

I called to tell you goodnight. You said, "I can't talk. I'm dying." The next morning you were dead.

27 October - The World Did Not Stop

You died shortly after 6 a.m. I think the nurses took pity on you.

How could the world not stop? How can it continue? Everywhere I go, I see you in the crowd. I hear you talking behind me, but you aren't there. You lived for me. How can I live for myself?

There have been so many more installments. Driving in California, hearing you tell me how "This all used to be farm land." Finding a freeway you'd never been on, and realizing that I'm still remembering you because you'd never been there. The house where I grew up sold. So many installments.

But now I am able to hold the memories and sometimes they make me smile. I miss you more than words can tell.

~XineAnn