Self Subversion

My uncle has come to stay with us for a while to further recover from a head injury he suffered several weeks ago after a fall. He's been in a rehab facility in the deep dark valley, and yesterday I went to pick him up. I'd like to say that it all went smoothly, that the medical system worked well, that all family members participated, that I never once lost my cool or spoke in the tone of voice I have acquired, somehow, despite myself, that lies somewhere between Stepford Caregiver cheerful and a dripping condescension. I'd like to say that getting lost in the facility and finding myself for a few minutes wandering through several rooms filled with disabled adults who milled about muttering or sat staring and nodding was at the very least, familiar.  Except that the medical system did not work well, all family members have not participated, I lost my cool a couple of times, and my tone of voice didn't just drip but splattered with irritation. And my wander through the halls of adult institutionalization resulted in a bout of sadness about nine hours later that I told Carl was something that just happens, sometimes, this wave of emotion that is best dealt with by assuming a kind of dead man's float, the better to not be drowned. The morning light brought so much relief it felt nearly funny, and I made blueberry muffins that I ate with the three men (one old, one in the middle and one young), along with pancetta that I scrambled with eggs. I cut up two blood oranges, and we ripped the flesh from the rind.

As the hours tick by and the caregiving continues, I think of self-regard, of self-care, of the illusion of the self.


Question: What do you have to look out for? 
Answer: Resentment. 


Resentment. If I could give it a shape, it'd be the infinity symbol or something impossible. If I could give it a color,  I think of something burnt red. Like the gray of embers with bursts of light. The word implacable. Women. Keeping our mouths shut. Resentment is not to be mistaken for anger which is the open mouth or red lips drawn into a smile.

The Boy is Finished with High School

I can hardly believe that my son Henry is finished with high school, graduated with honors and headed toward Gonzaga University in the fall. Good Lord. As they say, Where the hell did the time go? I am beyond proud of this young man and grateful for our relationship. He is charming and funny and joyful and intelligent, a tiny bit lazy which can also be interpreted as good-natured and has been the light of my life. And then there's his good looks. Good Lord.

I will miss him so much when he leaves us in late August, but I trust that our open and warm relationship will remain intact until he's an old man, and I'm a very old woman. That means I will always be right, of course, as well as wiser.

Here are some pictures from the weekend.

Henry and my mom at the Baccalaureate Mass

My dad, Henry and my mom at the Baccalaureate Mass

My dad and his mini-me

Mom, Me, Henry and Dad at the Baccalaureate Mass

Trivia: Do you know who that dashing young man is behind my father and Henry above? If you guess, I'll give you a prize. He's a classmate of Henry's, and it was quite thrilling to meet him and his family at the Baccalaureate Mass the night before graduation. During the "Peace Be With You" in the mass, I shook his hand. Hint: the arm attached to that hand pitches a 100 mph ball.

My friends Dorie and Johanna -- our three children went to preschool together and have remained friends through high school. It's been an honor and a privilege to watch them grow up, and damn -- I'm lucky in friendships.

The view from the bleachers

See Henry? We buy leis for our graduates -- I think it's the coolest tradition!

Bird's eye-view of Henry receiving his diploma from principal

The family (minus Sophie)

I love him a lot

Henry and his gorgeous girlfriend 

My dad, Henry and Uncle Tony (my father's twin brother)

I love this picture because they're not fighting

Me and my mom (we seem to have the same chin)

Post-graduation brunch

Cupcakes and peonies for our Taco Toast Graduate Party on Sunday

Saint Mirtha is also an incredible chef

It's a wrap.

The Day After Easter

The Palm at the End of the Mind


After fulfilling everything
one two three he came back again
free, no more prophecy requiring
that he enter the city just this way,
no more set-up treacheries.
It was the day after Easter. He adored
the eggshell litter and the cellophane
caught in the grass. Each door he passed
swung with its own business, all the 
witnesses along his route of pain
again distracted by fear of loss
or hope of gain. It was wonderful
to be a man, bewildered by 
so many flowers, the rush
and ebb of hours, his own
ambiguous gestures--his 
whole heart exposed, then
taking cover.


--Kay Ryan

Communiste

My Uncle Tony (Anthony Romano, on the left) and my father, (Michele Benito on the right) are talking to their Sister Mary in New Jersey. Uncle Tony and my father are fraternal twins, and they like to mess with her. They sound so much alike that she thought she was talking only to my father. Henry and Oliver thought this was hysterical, but my mother and I just rolled our eyes.

Fun fact: My father and Uncle Tony were born the fourth and fifth children in New York City to my grandmother Josephine who was a recent immigrant from southern Italy. She could neither read nor write in Italian or English, was a devout Catholic and retained her thick accent until the day she died at nearly ninety years old. Her surprise twins (she didn't know she was carrying two until she gave birth) were named after Benito Mussolini, a hero, at the time, to southern Italian peasants. Romano was Mussolini's youngest son. Evidently, anything bad in the world was quickly called communiste in my Noni's thick Italian accent. Bad actions were all those things that went against the norm: not going to mass, late garbage pick-up, etc. I have only fond memories of my grandmother, although I'm certain I would have been called communiste if she were alive.