Fear and furniture

I had a dream about Mom and Dad and furniture from the house of my childhood last night. The furniture was the most meaningful part, though (as often happens in my dreams), I reminded myself while dreaming that there was something amiss, that Mom was dead and it didn’t make sense for her to be IN the dream.

I figure the meaning has something to do with my desire for a home, for sanctuary. But there is no sanctuary these days. A terrorist cell was discovered in BUSTO this past week. And the fear of anthrax is apparently palpable everywhere in the US, especially urban areas.

Fear on a macro level is one thing; fear on a micro-let’s-talk-about-me level is another. We watched part of a television show about facelifts this week. After five minutes my head was light and I wanted to puke. Maybe I will wind up doing one but I definitely do NOT want to know what is being done.

Moving morass

People are always losing things in moves. They break, get misplaced, left behind, stolen. It’s part of the price of Having Stuff. I realized, looking at the list of contents in my storage unit that something I value is not mentioned. That is the framed print called "Bookworm". I had rescued it from the surprise attic as a child and it hung in my bedroom on Perry Drive during my teen years. Don’t remember if I had it or not as a young married -- isn’t that dreadful? But I am pretty sure it hung in the house in Fort Lee, along with that portrait of some woman who looked like my Aunt Bess. And I do recall deciding not to bring it with me to Europe but to leave it with Mom and Dad in Columbia, MD. And I recall wrapping it, or maybe unwrapping it, at some point in their garage.

But it is not on the list of items I’d stored. Grandma’s portrait is, but not that. Nor the costly prints Nando had brought back from Europe. Those I DO remember packing in a carton and storing in Columbia. Is it that all of them went the way of my doll collection (Poor Pitiful Pearl! Why didn’t I think to save her?), my horse collection, Dad’s prized theater scrapbook and half-century collection of homemade Christmas cards?

When duty calls

Timing, timing. Money, money. I don’t mind kissing off the Monaco conference. That was an excuse for a vacation anyway. I do feel uncomfortable about changing the appointment for the plastic surgeon a second time. I don’t think he is going to like that very much. Then there is all the arranging: airfare, rental car, rental Uhaul, strong arms to help me move, where to stay, how to get access to my niece's apartment if she has already left. Some of this depends on when I can get a flight.

Plus the female things: moving up appointments for hair color, hair cut, waxing, electrolysis. Plus leaving Homer again. Well, that I had been planning to do, but for five days, not eight or nine. Never mind; he will survive. Anyway, it’s an opportunity to see my father again, plus a chance to see my older son's current apartment and possibly his future roommate, and Boston and friends there.

Wondering

On June 18, 2001, I wondered to myself, "What if today were the last day of my life? Would I do anything differently?" I am thinking this because tomorrow I fly to the States for my mother's memorial service. Although she died seven weeks ago, we decided to hold her memorial service this month, to give me time to arrange things from afar. Dad isn’t in condition to do it, and things take longer because of the six-hour time difference. I am an optimistic person by nature but . . . things happen. These days, people think about it more, but I was living in Italy when the plane blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1989, so the uncertainty has been with me for a long time. Therefore, being blunt and brutal: if my plane were to blow up tomorrow by the will of God or an act of man, my sons are all right. That’s the most important thing.

Prince of love

Because I was at home in Italy and Mom was in Maryland, flying to her side wasn't as fast or simple as popping down the road. I arrived too late to be with her during the last moments of her death watch, but the point had really been to keep Dad company. She had been doped up with morphine during her final hospital stay, anyway, to the point where she perhaps hadn’t recognized my father on some of his final visits and definitely would not have recognized me.

She hadn’t known who I was for about two years. But usually she knew who Dad was, and would call him her "Prince of Love". She might stumble over his name, but the “Prince of Love” label came flowing right out.