Then and Now

Remembering Joseph
Timeless Pose
In the frame on the nightstand,
you sit comfortably on the edge
of the Aztec print sofa, smiling.
There are no lines on your face—
no pain set into your features, yet.
Your jet-black hair shines
like the head of a baby seal,
smooth with the softness of youth.

There are photos of Joseph all over the apartment. Most especially, there are photos of Joseph in the master bedroom, where he lived in bed for thirteen years while he was ill. I sleep there now, in the same bed that Joseph slept in. I have strategically placed his photos on every piece of furniture in the room. There are photos of Joseph on the dresser, on the chest of drawers, and on the nightstand. There are photos of Joseph, at the age of forty-seven, when we first met. There are photos of him at the age of fifty-eight, when he retired from his teaching position. There are photos of him at the age of seventy-two, when he became ill. I look at them in the morning when I awake. I look at them whenever I enter the room. I look at them before I exit the room. I stop in front of them. I smile at them. I talk to them. I linger in front of them. I look at them one last time when I retire at night, just before I say my prayers.
Each night, I shed a few tears for what was, that I no longer have—a partner, a lover, a supporter, a best friend. I shed a few tears for what wasn’t, that will never be—a marriage, children, an extended family. I shed a few tears so that I will never forget the love we shared and the emptiness I alone am left to face, accept, and endure.
I pray I will remember every inch of Joseph: his focused piercing eyes that reminded me of moist black Mediterranean olives; his tall statuesque body that towered over most; his perfectly formed soft, pliable lips and his smooth swarthy skin. I pray I will remember his profound insight into people, his understanding of the world, his philosophical attitude, the sagacious thoughts that he uttered daily. I pray I will remember his clean scent of delicious warmth that radiated comfort and the strong muscles he used to gently guide and protect me. I pray I will remember how safe and secure I felt when he held me in his loving arms, how my heart melted and I smiled at him when he took my hand, and how I felt right and complete at his side.
Sometimes I cry a lot. I moan and bellow and wail. Some nights, when I look up at the sky, I see a full moon, perfectly round, translucent, and bright. On these nights, as I think of Joseph, I become very selfish. I want more, and I ache inside. Some nights, when I look up at the sky, I see a new moon, slender and slight. These are the nights the earth’s energy taps into my emotions. It beckons me to look back at our former, unfulfilled goals and release them. It compels me to breathe deeply, take in the positive energy that surrounds me, and exhale the negative energy I hold within. It drives me to think about dreaming new dreams and making changes in my life.

We’re Both Winners
There are a lot more letters than hello and goodbye.
The spring brings tulips that ring in a garden of color
before petals fall, only to feel the summer’s heat.
Then days illuminate with night’s repose
and the trees’ outlines fill in shades of green
where waves of autumn, auburn and yellow,
replace the fierce winds and stark winters.
And so, the years pass—hello, goodbye,
here and gone, without so much as stopping at an ess or
remembering a gee, or being thankful, without a why.

Joseph and I were almost twenty years apart. I was a baby boomer of the fifties, a part of the me generation. Joseph was born in the height of the Great Depression and matured into a distinguished gentleman of the forties. He was charming, charismatic, and courteous. He was assertive and confident. I learned a great deal at Joseph’s side as l began to see and think about life from a totally different perspective. And Joseph offered his knowledge and the wisdom of his life experience without restraint. I guess you could say I grew up alongside Joseph.
One rainy afternoon, about a year into our relationship, (I was nearly twenty-eight, and Joseph was forty-eight.) we stayed in, sat on the living room floor, and played Scrabble. I made coffee, as was my custom. Joseph prepared a huge fruit tart on sponge cake. (He had a bit of a sweet tooth, and the desserts he made were really yummy!)
We were both good with words, but I was more of a strategist than he. At first, we were neck in neck. Then he got a double letter score with a zee, and he was ahead—until I covered the triple word score box. And finally, when there were no tiles left, I had won the game by twenty points. Being the competitive sort, I shouted out, “Yay, I won.” Joseph looked sad and defeated when he said in a very low-keyed voice, “I don’t understand you, Benita. You say you love me. Then you want to compete against me. You play hard, and you’re happy that you’ve won, and I’ve lost. What kind of love is that? Is the game more important than I am? When two people are in love, don’t they want to work together and not against each other?”
I quickly understood that Joseph had a very sensitive side, a side that embraced love and caring, not winning. Competing against Joseph was sort of schizophrenic. In Joseph’s world, it was like competing against part of yourself. We were now a team, a unit. I learned you shouldn’t want to beat your partner in life. The two of you should always be on the same side. You should trust one another and walk beside each other in harmony. From that moment on, when we played games, we never kept score. Games were for fun. And in the end, we were both winners.