par avion
The phone rang last night at eleven. Everyone who knows me in real life is aware that I turn into a pumpkin at about 8:45, which, incidentally, is one of the several reasons I absolutely have the wrong job.
At first I was confused and indignant—who the hell would call at this hour? Then panic. It could be a wrong number, or it could be disaster.
At first I was confused and indignant—who the hell would call at this hour? Then panic. It could be a wrong number, or it could be disaster.
Finally I heard the answering machine kick in. It was the E-man, who said right off, "You're probably asleep right now...." I sprinted across the house and made it to the phone just before he was about to hang up.
He had figured out the international calling thing, and finally, finally had a day off. To get cell reception, he had to walk (a full minute!) to the beach. It was raining, so he stood under his umbrella to chat with me. It was wonderful to hear his voice. I could also hear a rooster in the background, and children laughing and shouting "Hello!" to Eli, in English. He is well and happy.
I've only spoken with him twice since he left for the Philippines to serve in the Peace Corps. His flight left very early on July 4th, hardly a month after his college graduation. That morning, his bags already packed and waiting by the door, we sat in the dim light at the dining table; he was eating cereal and I was sipping my coffee. I wondered aloud how parents do it, send their children to college, or off into the world, if they haven't had practice sending them on choir tours or to music camps far away. And Eli reminded me of the time he was on tour and Seth was home with me, lounging on the couch, and I asked him to help in the kitchen.
"I can't empty the dishwasher! I miss my brother!"
I had completely forgotten.
"When I got home and you told me about it, at first I thought it was sweet. And then I realized."
Those few weeks he was home between graduation and departure were busy, but we managed to find lots of time to tell all the stories, about Seth as a little guy, ("Remember when he was pleasant, Mom?"), about friends, the house, all the incidents that remind us who we are, who we've been.
And it is true that every goodbye at the security checkpoint gets easier, since that first one, although I think that for Eli this one might have been the hardest. Two years seems a long, long time.
After a few weeks in Manila for general orientation, he was sent out to a more rural location. Before he left, he sent a quick email to assure me that while he would be out of contact, he "wouldn't be dead or anything."
Or anything.
I guess I didn't really get exactly what "out of contact" would actually mean. He has to travel an hour to get Internet access, at a mall with a Starbucks.
For weeks, Seth, who pretends he does not miss his brother (this time), asked every day, "Have you heard from Eli?"
"Not a peep."
So a week ago, on Saturday, avoiding some onerous tasks I needed to complete, I typed up a full page letter, tiny font, with all the news. It was a quiet morning, and through the open window I could hear my neighbors talking quietly, and the wind in the shrubbery, and an occasional cluck from a chicken. The sparrows were chattering like nobody's business. Then early the next morning, I typed a second full page and printed them both up, one on each side of a single sheet. I penciled in a few little details in the margins, like about the moment I glanced up from my desk because I saw a shadow darting along the top of the neighbor's fence. A rat.
A RAT.
(The cat is in deep trouble.)
How quaint and odd it felt, writing a real letter! And deeply, strangely satisfying.
At the bottom of one of my desk drawers, I found the airmail envelopes I bought the year Eli was born, a little yellow now. Until we all had email, I had written once or twice a year to my friend Chris, in England. When Eli was about five, he asked about the Christmas card with Durham Cathedral on the front that came in the envelope with the fancy stamp. When I explained all about it, he looked at me, incredulous, and gasped, "You are... friends? With a REDCOAT?"
A few days before Eli left, I learned that Chris had died, very suddenly. I thought about both those men, my boy, a man now, with his whole future in front of him, full of possibility, and of Chris, no more. Chris, who faithfully sent a Christmas card every year, even after email, and usually wrote only "love, chris." Chris's son had found a collection of my letters tucked in with his father's papers, and was kind enough to track me down to let me know. I was moved that Chris had saved my letters. Those same envelopes. It was strange and sad and hopeful, handling them, the feel of the thin paper, tucking in the letter with tiny font.
A week passed, and I knew Eli would not have received the letter yet, but I had been keeping mental notes, collecting funnies, so I wrote another. Seth and I were lazy most of the day, reading, and then I realized, suddenly, that I only had half an hour before the post office would close. I needed a fancy international stamp. (They are round!) I hopped on my bike and zipped on over, in that last block weaving through the market where the farmers were packing up their trucks to go home. At the post office, there was an enormously tall man at the counter, mailing dozens of book-sized packages. He was being helped by an Asian gentleman who is famous at our house, because one day four years ago when Eli and I walked into that same post office to mail all his boxes ahead to college, this fella took one look at us, and in a very thick accent, shouted from across the empty room, "OH! YOU TWO LOOK JUST ALIKE!"
The postal worker who helped me had a moustache that reminded me of Victorian gentleman. He spoke in a nasal monotone, as if thinking aloud, “Let’s see what you’ve got here… a package and an airmail letter… Philippines… I see... all right….”
I said cheerfully, “When your kid doesn’t have Internet, you have to break down and write an actual letter!” Everyone chuckled, and nasal monotone cracked a smile, even, which looked like it pained him, and wheezed, “Well, that’s right!” And the enormously tall man turned and told me that his friend’s son is in Mongolia, and only has Internet when the sun is shining, because they use solar panels to power the computer. Mr. Monotone then guessed Eli must be in a rural area. Indeed.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, and at the entrance I saw a tiny boy finishing up his gelato, and his face was positively covered in chocolate, which made me laugh right out loud. He was wandering behind his mother, looking a little lost and entirely unconcerned about the state of his face. Mom was searching for a napkin.
I am pleased that Eli will have the letters, actual paper letters in those particular envelopes. I don't plan on moving on to the next world any time soon, but neither did Chris, I'd wager.
He had figured out the international calling thing, and finally, finally had a day off. To get cell reception, he had to walk (a full minute!) to the beach. It was raining, so he stood under his umbrella to chat with me. It was wonderful to hear his voice. I could also hear a rooster in the background, and children laughing and shouting "Hello!" to Eli, in English. He is well and happy.
I've only spoken with him twice since he left for the Philippines to serve in the Peace Corps. His flight left very early on July 4th, hardly a month after his college graduation. That morning, his bags already packed and waiting by the door, we sat in the dim light at the dining table; he was eating cereal and I was sipping my coffee. I wondered aloud how parents do it, send their children to college, or off into the world, if they haven't had practice sending them on choir tours or to music camps far away. And Eli reminded me of the time he was on tour and Seth was home with me, lounging on the couch, and I asked him to help in the kitchen.
"I can't empty the dishwasher! I miss my brother!"
I had completely forgotten.
"When I got home and you told me about it, at first I thought it was sweet. And then I realized."
Those few weeks he was home between graduation and departure were busy, but we managed to find lots of time to tell all the stories, about Seth as a little guy, ("Remember when he was pleasant, Mom?"), about friends, the house, all the incidents that remind us who we are, who we've been.
And it is true that every goodbye at the security checkpoint gets easier, since that first one, although I think that for Eli this one might have been the hardest. Two years seems a long, long time.
After a few weeks in Manila for general orientation, he was sent out to a more rural location. Before he left, he sent a quick email to assure me that while he would be out of contact, he "wouldn't be dead or anything."
Or anything.
I guess I didn't really get exactly what "out of contact" would actually mean. He has to travel an hour to get Internet access, at a mall with a Starbucks.
For weeks, Seth, who pretends he does not miss his brother (this time), asked every day, "Have you heard from Eli?"
"Not a peep."
So a week ago, on Saturday, avoiding some onerous tasks I needed to complete, I typed up a full page letter, tiny font, with all the news. It was a quiet morning, and through the open window I could hear my neighbors talking quietly, and the wind in the shrubbery, and an occasional cluck from a chicken. The sparrows were chattering like nobody's business. Then early the next morning, I typed a second full page and printed them both up, one on each side of a single sheet. I penciled in a few little details in the margins, like about the moment I glanced up from my desk because I saw a shadow darting along the top of the neighbor's fence. A rat.
A RAT.
(The cat is in deep trouble.)
How quaint and odd it felt, writing a real letter! And deeply, strangely satisfying.
At the bottom of one of my desk drawers, I found the airmail envelopes I bought the year Eli was born, a little yellow now. Until we all had email, I had written once or twice a year to my friend Chris, in England. When Eli was about five, he asked about the Christmas card with Durham Cathedral on the front that came in the envelope with the fancy stamp. When I explained all about it, he looked at me, incredulous, and gasped, "You are... friends? With a REDCOAT?"
A few days before Eli left, I learned that Chris had died, very suddenly. I thought about both those men, my boy, a man now, with his whole future in front of him, full of possibility, and of Chris, no more. Chris, who faithfully sent a Christmas card every year, even after email, and usually wrote only "love, chris." Chris's son had found a collection of my letters tucked in with his father's papers, and was kind enough to track me down to let me know. I was moved that Chris had saved my letters. Those same envelopes. It was strange and sad and hopeful, handling them, the feel of the thin paper, tucking in the letter with tiny font.
A week passed, and I knew Eli would not have received the letter yet, but I had been keeping mental notes, collecting funnies, so I wrote another. Seth and I were lazy most of the day, reading, and then I realized, suddenly, that I only had half an hour before the post office would close. I needed a fancy international stamp. (They are round!) I hopped on my bike and zipped on over, in that last block weaving through the market where the farmers were packing up their trucks to go home. At the post office, there was an enormously tall man at the counter, mailing dozens of book-sized packages. He was being helped by an Asian gentleman who is famous at our house, because one day four years ago when Eli and I walked into that same post office to mail all his boxes ahead to college, this fella took one look at us, and in a very thick accent, shouted from across the empty room, "OH! YOU TWO LOOK JUST ALIKE!"
The postal worker who helped me had a moustache that reminded me of Victorian gentleman. He spoke in a nasal monotone, as if thinking aloud, “Let’s see what you’ve got here… a package and an airmail letter… Philippines… I see... all right….”
I said cheerfully, “When your kid doesn’t have Internet, you have to break down and write an actual letter!” Everyone chuckled, and nasal monotone cracked a smile, even, which looked like it pained him, and wheezed, “Well, that’s right!” And the enormously tall man turned and told me that his friend’s son is in Mongolia, and only has Internet when the sun is shining, because they use solar panels to power the computer. Mr. Monotone then guessed Eli must be in a rural area. Indeed.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, and at the entrance I saw a tiny boy finishing up his gelato, and his face was positively covered in chocolate, which made me laugh right out loud. He was wandering behind his mother, looking a little lost and entirely unconcerned about the state of his face. Mom was searching for a napkin.
Then another, slightly bigger boy came out of the store, hopping up and down as he was walking, and shouting, “THIS IS MY SECOND TWO DOLLAR BILL!”
So many shoppers, so many children, so much life.
Back at home again, we had a quiet evening, more reading, crepes for dinner, and I felt satisfied about sending off that letter.
Back at home again, we had a quiet evening, more reading, crepes for dinner, and I felt satisfied about sending off that letter.
When Eli called last night, it was entirely unexpected. I had heard so little about his time there. I was so sleepy, I was afraid I'd think of things to ask only after we hung up, so I was working hard to focus. Although, evidently I did not work hard enough, because I realized today that I'd used the term "dicksack" in our conversation, as a proper noun, as in "way out in Dicksack, Idaho," and—just a wild guess here—but I'm thinking no young man wants to hear his mother use that term. I'll do better next time.
And that, that, is what so surprises me. The next time. Eli mentioned more than once that when he is in his permanent location, we can set up a regular time to chat. I do not have a relationship with my parents, so this is uncharted territory. I was busy with work, with travel, with organizing our home without that boy, and did not stop to think that I have no idea how adult children and parents maintain and nurture their connection. By some miracle, I have raised a child who is interesting, brave, and conscientious about keeping in touch.
I am pleased that Eli will have the letters, actual paper letters in those particular envelopes. I don't plan on moving on to the next world any time soon, but neither did Chris, I'd wager.
I feel an occasional sharp pang, missing Eli, of course, like when the other day I happened across his "perfect attendance" award from elementary school. But after last night's talk, two years does not seem so long. In fact, everything feels right with the world.
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