Nine moments of grief held while the work proceeds.
Jan back in Brooklyn, three months past. The pack is the texture of grief held while the work proceeds — August at the door with soup, Priya on the couch, Naomi's email landing, the grandfather-photo + the framed note added to the wall (the wall expands from five framed things to seven, the canon-update sweep).
The first Tuesday back.
Eight days since I'd returned from the funeral. August texted that morning: I will be there tonight unless you'd rather alone. I texted back please come. He came. The Tuesday was the same shape — coffee at Milk Bar at 11, walk to the park, lunch at the apartment, dinner together. The pattern carried me through the day. By 8 PM it had done what it always does. The grief was not gone. The grief was being held by the Tuesday.
August came by with soup on Wednesday at 7:14 PM.
The soup was from the restaurant on Manhattan Ave — August knows I find it easy on a hard week. He didn't stay. Staying would've made it a visit. The soup was trying very hard not to be a visit. He handed me the bag. He said I will see you tomorrow. He kissed my forehead. He left. He'd included the crackers I pretend not to care about. At 7:42 PM, in the kitchen with the bowl, the soup was exactly what I needed.
Put on Mom's cardigan for the first time on Friday morning.
It had been in the closet drawer for three weeks. In the mirror, the cardigan was Mom-shaped on me — slightly too small in the shoulders, which was the point. Wore it for the morning. Didn't perform the wearing. The cardigan was on. The chair was the chair. The morning was the morning. The cardigan stayed on through lunch.
Added two things to the wall on Saturday afternoon.
The wall had had five framed things and a faded yellow rectangle since last winter. By 3:42 PM Saturday it had seven framed things and a faded yellow rectangle. The grandfather's photo — him in the cream sweater, in his fifties — went beside Mom's card. The framed note (the eight characters in his handwriting — 我替你妈妈感谢你) went on the opposite side. August held the hammer. I hung them in the order I'd decided. The wall, after the hanging, was a different wall.
Priya came by Sunday afternoon.
She'd texted Friday: Sunday I'll come for the longer version. I will bring nothing. I will leave when you want. Arrived at 2:14 PM. Priya's version of bringing nothing included one chocolate bar, because Priya believes nothing is an ideal, not a packing list. Made tea. Sat on the couch. We didn't talk for a long while. Talked, eventually, for two hours and eleven minutes — Mom, the apartment, the cardigan, the wall. Priya didn't try to fix. She listened. Left at 4:42. The afternoon was exactly what Sunday at four needed to be that week.
Naomi's email arrived Tuesday at 10:42 AM.
"The proof is ready." Three short paragraphs. Take your time. The press is in no hurry. Read it the way you would read someone else's. Tell me what you find. — N. The PDF was attached. Didn't, in the first hour, open it. Made tea. Sat with the closed laptop. Decided to open it at noon. Read the first three pages standing at the desk. Read the rest of it in the chair, with the cat on the arm and the lamp on.
Went to the floor with the laptop at 3:42 PM.
On the floor for unclear reasons — the chair had started to feel too upright for the reading. Mim came by at minute eight. We were, by minute eleven, both on the floor. Read the proof the way Naomi said — as if it were someone else's. Two hours. Three Post-its from the desk. The proof was mostly right. The book was, by 6:14 PM Tuesday, almost a book.
Turned 32 on October 22.
Priya's idea — small, just us, the apartment. Priya brought the cake. Ana brought wine. August brought the Hangzhou-style steamed buns from the bakery on Manhattan Ave. Priya put two candles in the cake and said thirty-two candles wasn't a celebration, it was a fire code issue. Mom was on FaceTime, in Hangzhou, in the quilted jacket. Mom said eat well, daughter. Mom said the grandfather would have been pleased. Cried, the contained way, for the second time in the year. Priya took my hand under the table. Ana didn't look. August was beside me. The cake was lemon.
Sent the proof back to Naomi on a Wednesday morning at 8:42 AM.
Four lines. Three marginal notes attached. The book had, by 8:43 AM, gone back to the press for the final pass. My part was done. The grief and the work had run side-by-side for eight weeks. The grief was not gone. The work was done.