Colors and Memories

I would rather blog than read papers for school, clean the kitchen or bathroom, wash clothes, wash dishes, or wash the car (which, BTW, has a big scratch now) or anything domestic. I shouldn't have started because this process of recording and communicating if very addicting. I just finished re-reading everyone's blogs (including my own) and comments. Brian asked me to not get too "gushy" which I interpret to mean "mushy" or "emotional." I will try, but I have one more thing I would like to share about Blaine. The year after his death, I ran away to Mexico on the anniversary of that death. I had experienced all (or at least I thought I had) the "firsts"--first camping trip, first Thanksgiving and Christmas, first Super Bowl, first tax season and all of the other little things that were so difficult to do alone; so I wanted to go away from everything familiar for the first anniversary of the aloneness. I didn't want to spend it with family or at our home. I just wanted to do something totally not related to the memory of Blaine. I called a travel agent, told her how much money I wanted to spend, and asked her where I could go. Porta Viarta--somewhere in Mexico. I spent five days on the beach, read eight young adult novels, and do not remember being so glad to return home. The following is the result of reclaiming myself in Mexico.



The Colors We Leave Behind
by Carol Jewkes Austin

May 2004

It had been four days of crowded isolation – the perfect romantic getaway with surf and sand, palm trees and exotic birds. I had my own private lanais complete with my own private lime-colored lizard and serenading bullfrog. Beautiful brown skinned men, women and children played on the beach soaking sun, sand, and weightless burdens while I watched and envied their rich black hair and bronze skin.

I spent most of my visit outside, either on the beach or in the garden reading novels about teenage struggles with drugs, racial bias, and the dustbowl phenomenon while I struggled with being old and alone. The novels took me away to inner city Detroit, the deep South, and Oklahoma and away from the stale mildew of old age that invaded the rich tile and wood of my bungalow.

Saturday had been my 57th birthday, a day I thought I didn’t want to celebrate. As the hours crept by with no cheerful “happy birthday, Grandma” or “so how old are you really Mom?” on the other end of my cell phone line I wondered if I would ever know what I thought again. I had told my children I didn’t even want to recognize that May 22nd or May 23rd existed on a calendar. But now I hoped they would do as they usually did and ignore my wishes. Tucking my phone into the front pocket of my cropped khaki pants, I waited for the ring that didn’t come.

Then there was Sunday – May 23rd. It was a year from the day I had stayed much too long (as usual) at school reading papers, recording grades, completing the textbook inventory. It was a year from the day we had sat together on the front porch and he listened while I complained about the social studies teacher who had imposed her influence and forced me to make adjustments to “my” graduation preparations. It was a year from the day I was preparing for a visit from our son and his family, but for some reason had gone into the bathroom to visit with him while he showered. It was a year from the day I made a sarcastic remark about the moan I couldn’t understand and accused him of whining because we were having company. It was a year from the day that I was so self-absorbed that I hadn’t asked him how he was.

It wasn’t only the 23rd of May but the last day in Mexico. I had spent the day with “what ifs” and “whys” and was closing the day with one last sunset somewhere on the coastline of Mexico. As dusk encroached on the swimmers and sand builders, I sat in a beach chair with one last young adult novel in my hand. It couldn’t take me away this time. All I could do was hold it in my left hand with my ring finger marking my place as I helplessly watched the sun sink away – large and golden as Blaine had been to me. He was always there to warm and protect me from cold realities – the accidental death of our two-year-old son, the illegitimate birth of our firstborn grandchild, the cancer that took my only brother. Like the sun balancing on the horizon, Blaine created balance in my life – questioning my obsessive commitment to my students, my overindulgence of our children, my unreasonable anger with things that didn’t really matter.

Blaine expected me to be the best I could be. He listened to my whine then asked me what I was going to do to solve the problem. He knew I could write before I knew. He lit my way to success.

Now in my crowded isolation, like the rising tide, questions raged. The questions pushed me deeper and deeper into my despair and the sun sank deeper and deeper into the horizon. How could I survive without my mentor and my best friend? Who would lead me to balanced decisions and reasonable compromises? Who would help me to laugh at my foibles and face life with thoughtful perspectives? Who would hold me on sweet summer nights and warm me on bright winter days? It was like trying to survive without the sun.

The funnel of reflecting gold off the water widened and stretched as it met the air broken only by a slivered arc. Then, like Blaine the sun slipped away. But the rich azure blue did not fade to grey. It deepened to royal and lavender as the sun slid gently into the ocean. Then it was completely gone. In that moment, I realized the golden funnel had grown wider and longer lighting the water like nature’s own flood light. Life-sustaining breaths of pink, red, orange, yellow, and even green hung suspended in clouds supported in royal lavender skies. I was engulfed in a breathtaking panorama of water and air and color. A sweet memory of love and wisdom protected me from the loom of dark and menacing shadows.

I’d like to believe what came next was a whisper from God or, better yet, a “kick in the butt” from Blaine on that anniversary of his death. Some might conclude that is was just the breeze coming off the salt water or maybe even the celebratory music opening the reverie of the night. Others might call it epiphany or believe it to be a spiritual moment. I want to think Blaine, my mentor, the love of my life, my best friend, was leading me one more time and whispering, “Remember and celebrate all the color I left behind.”