Scheherazade – XIV — The Ending

The conclusion to Scheherazade.

Grandma died on Valentine’s Day, and it was painful for you as for the rest of the family. At odd times you’ll say that you wish she could come back. Or that Winston (our old cat who died last year) could come back. You’re even starting to piece out the loss of a parent. We don’t steer towards or away from the issue. You kind of set the course. You remarked one day that you had cried at her memorial service, and I think it came up in your class at school. You were close with her and she adored and admired you.

I’m glad she got to know your spirit and got a sense of your amazing, determined little personality. You got her, too. She was your grandma and your friend. I’m glad the two of you were close even if it will only be in the faintest memories. I can assure you that right now she is not a faint memory although I suspect eventually newer memories will crowd out the specifics and you’ll have only a general sense of her. That’s okay. Your two souls got to dance together for a little bit. She loved you and you loved her.

We had a memorial service for her in February and a funeral in August out in Wisconsin. She was buried alongside my dad in the cemetery of her sister and parents and many, many relatives. I flew out to Minnesota and drove her ashes alone in a rental car across Wisconsin all through the night. I played great music and felt like her hearse driver taking her on her last drive. My mom loved to travel and it was wonderful to take her on her last trip. I heard a Japanese guitarist play an adaptation of Bach’s cello suites, great classic rock, musicals, and a lot of other stuff. She would have had the best time on the ride spending so much time with one of her sons and getting his full attention.

When we got to Wisconsin, we had the funeral. We laid her ashes in her grave. If you’re ever in Wisconsin you should go see her (and your grandfather). They are buried next to each other. Just head to the part of the public cemetery where you hear arguing (and laughter). A bunch of local relatives showed up, along with her brother, Uncle Chris and our cousins Sean and Bruce. It wasn’t a long service. In fact it really wasn’t a service at all. We just created a circle and shared our thoughts about your grandmother. Maybe there were ten of us.

Sean brought a boom box and played a piece of music my mom had once mentioned she wanted played at her funeral. Chris and I played Richie Havens’ Follow. A few years ago I heard Follow in a movie (the exquisite A Walk on the Moon) and bought the soundtrack and shared it with your grandmother when we were in Maine, telling her about this great song I’d found. I told her it was one of my favorite songs in the world and that I couldn’t even put my finger on why I was so deeply moved by it. With a smile my mom went and found the record. She had played it endlessly it turns out for one whole summer while I was still in a crib.

When we hit play on that boom box and this beautiful summer day filled up with Richie Havens’ voice singing, I had one of the few transcendent spiritual experiences of my life. I swear to you that it was like grandma was singing the song and that she was singing about being gone and our hands “tying a knot across the table” and the song made perfect sense as a song of somebody who was gone and completely, utterly free, beyond gravity. It was the most liberated experience of my mother I’ve ever had. I can’t even explain it. It was like she was just flying and soaring to the words. Utterly free. I don’t know what to make of it except to say that it was wonderful. She was telling us (me) she was okay. May you have the same experience when I move on. You may want to play that song. I wouldn’t mind flying around to it myself.

After the funeral we all gathered for food at a nearby restaurant. Everybody got along so well. It was the closest I think I’ve ever been to my cousins. And then I drove back to Minnesota through the night.

It is going to sound strange to say this about the day of your mother’s funeral, but I think it was a perfect day. The whole night I had been so moved driving my mom out to Wisconsin on her last ride. I was completely softened up. Then there was the transporting moment at the cemetery and everyone getting along. It was very sad and yet, strangely, perfect. Heart was soft and open and any day spent soft and open is probably a good day.

*

You are my little angel asleep in the next room. For the next few years you will wake in my house, come cry to me when you are sad, and give me the magical privilege of being your father. I love you, love you, love you. Big squeeze.

I’m going to slip into your room now, stare at you over the crib railing, pull the covers up over your little body, put Curious George under your arm, and thank God for the kindness he’s shined on our life. Bless you, Little One.

Merry Christmas.

Love, Dad

*

And at the end of a thousand and one nights, Scheherazade gathered her two infant children to her side and announced to the sultan that she had no more tales to tell him.

Just like that.

Bravely and just like that.

The tale of Scheherazade is the most beautiful of framing stories. Language carrying the world forward, describing a world worth living in, a world of cunning and beauty and, yes, comeuppance, a world shaped by her education and her history, by her studies in philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments.

And with her words she softened her listener’s cruelty, tamed the beast in him, shifted something in his heart, made his life bearable, awoke a new, better hunger. Scheherazade spooled out her tales, ingratiated herself with her wisdom and her lovely words, and used language to control and shift the sultan’s heart.

And then she surrendered herself into silence to hear if her life would be spared.

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The Complete Text:

Scheherazade