The days after his death, over the weekend, were full of emotion. Mostly, I was in a fog. I couldn't sleep, but the endless coffee supply wasn't working either. We were all exhausted. We struggled to keep up. It wasn't all misery and sadness. There was a lot of family around, and coming and going of numerous family friends.
I was struck most by Mr. Max. Pepeir's best friend, and neighbor across the street for thirty years. Thirty years. I think of the relationship that I have with my longest friend, Sabrina. We've been friends for, like, ten years. I feel like she is my family. She is like another sister to me. Pepeir and Max saw each other every day. They helped each other with everything, through everything. Together, out in the workshops or in each other's yards, they forged a brotherhood. Max's despair wore heavily on him. He was truly heartbroken. We should all be so lucky to have such a friend. It was especially hard to watch him, appearing in the yard, leafblower on his back, grooming the lawn as he'd helped do all through the summer when Pepeir could not. It was as if he was reaching out for some sort of normalcy. For years, they'd groomed each other's lawns- fought moles, weeds, pests and critters- cut down enormous trees, moved sheds, built things. Now, it was just Max. I was acutely aware of the profound loneliness that hung about him as he shuffled along, blowing the leaves. It was truly a moment where I wanted, more than anything, to wear his pain as my own - to save him from having to feel it.
The New England Invasion came. Aunt Barbie (Bahbie) from Buffalo, New Yahk. Aunt Eileen and Uncle Frank, from South Carolina (Maine, really, for most of their lives) (Picturing them in South Carolina is like picturing George Bush at Gay Pride. Something just not quite right about it. They are true Nahtherners.) As Dana so wittily put it, r's were dropping like flies all over the shore. Not having spent much time with Memeir's brother and sisters, in my adulthood anyway, I can truly say that they were wonderful. They were a joy. Their presence was comforting. They sounded like faheigners, with their accents, but felt like family. I truly enjoyed being around them and getting to know them.
Billy and I had our first real fight, as adults. To put it shortly, he internalized his feelings, and probably tried to ignore them. He went out a lot, which I thought wasn't appropriate. I told him so, and he said two choice words to me that started with f and ended in you. I wasn't really mad, just frustrated that he wasn't talking to me. I feel more protective over him than a little bit, and just wanted to be there for him I think. I know he picked the fight with me. And I know why. Sometimes, emotions don't always come to the surface when they should. Sometimes, we have a really tough time trying to express them. Sometimes, often times, they are preceded by misguided anger and, in Billy and my case, always forgiven. Often, I've wished we lived nearer to each other. Our whole lives, it seems, we've lived in different states, different cities. We've forged one of the closest relationships and bonds I've had in my whole life, via holidays and long lost road trips to Maine. Our fight was short lived, perhaps two hours, and it ended in tears and hugs and a wonderful conversation cut short only by the fact that we were conversing in the twin room in Memeir's very busy house. A twin room that wasn't ours, but Cindy's. Needless to say, before the week was out, we took a walk around Deer Harbour and just...talked. During the walk, there were things that I could tell were lurking just under the surface of our casual conversation. Apologies, rehashing, understanding...but they didn't need to be said. We both knew.
Michelle was at the house almost every free chance she got. It was amazing to me how she always seemed to say the right thing, be there at the right time, somehow save the day. She got a playpen for Taylor to sleep in while we were there. It was cute, too; one of the ancient ones like I used to play in as a child. As a child, she was truly difficult for the adults. She was strong willed, determined to be defiant, threw temper tantrums that would make even Pepeir frustrated. My mother even once poured a bucket of cold water (waden) over her head. A really huge bucket. It was amazing. The child had powers to zap the patience and resolve of even the most Dr. Spock loving adult. But, never did her and I have any issues. I was a touch older, and when she got truly out of hand, I would try to talk her into behaving. Like a younger sister, she tended to just want to hang with me, so she'd chill out. But, I have to say. She is an amazing woman. I got to know her so much more as an adult during this trip, as well. She is strong, smart, and says exactly what she feels. She doesn't apologize for being herself, and nor should she. She is caring, and thoughtful, and understands us crazy people more than most of us understand ourselves.
The few days leading upto the funeral were gray, and rainy and cold. But the warmth in the house was incredible. Quickly, I started to miss the shore. I started to yearn for the closeness of my family. I felt that some part, if not all, of my heart lived down here. The smell of chicken manuere in the spring. The glorious violence of the hurricanes on the beach in the fall. The endless supply of vicious mosquitoes and fireflies in the summer. The really bizzarely resilient daddy longlegs spiders ?all year long?. (I don't remember them in October, but I guess so). The ridiculous amount of other arachnids. Ok, so it isn't all roses and strawberry jam; but it's my roots.
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