A Phone Call--and a Good Hard Cry

I talked on the phone for quite awhile with my good friend Joanne. Her mom's mental state, ravaged by vascular dementia, has deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. It hurt, that talk. After I hung up, I cried.

I cried for Joanne. She and her mom somehow escaped all the craziness and hurt that accompanies most mother-daughter relationships. They were always just so right--close, but not in that creepy way that makes you wonder if the mother is trying to relive or somehow make up for something that she lacked; no role reversal; no shutting out or closing in. Somehow they did it--Carol remained the mom yet Joanne grew up and they both recognized and rejoiced in that and were just so damned right with each other. I've rarely seen a relationship so solid and decent, so the way it is supposed to be.

I cried for Joe, Carol's husband and Joanne's dad. One of the most loving and genuinely kind men I have ever known, Joe cared for Carol through years of debilitating arthritis, and somehow made it seem simple, just love, you know. Somehow he made you think, "Oh right. That's the way love is. That's what people who love each other do." Until you looked around and realized, no, no, most don't.

And I cried for me. Joe and Carol never knew, even Joanne never knew, but those two, their marriage, their partnership, their Joe-and-Carolness, shaped my life in such important ways.

It was during college. Our third year? Maybe our senior year. Joanne and I shared a Calvin College apartment, with four girls, er, young women. Geez. We were girls, so unbelievably utterly girls. I was visiting Joanne in New Jersey and her parents took us into Manhattan. I don't know about most New Jerseyites, but Joanne's parents were not in the least intimidated by New York City. No, Joe and Carol made Manhattan their own. They may have lived in Paterson, but they were New Yorkers in their soul. We had gone to a show, I think, or perhaps dinner. It was late but of course the streets were full and we stopped for ice cream cones. And Joe and Carol walked ahead down the sidewalk--this New York sidewalk, teeming, bustling, bursting with life--and they held hands and Joe, a tall  man, bent to hear Carol's quip and then tossed his head back and roared with laughter.

I looked at them and thought, "I want that." I wanted it all. The nighttime.The city street. The laughter. But most of all, the hand-holding. I often saw my parents hugging or kissing, but I had never seen them hold hands. I had never seen any of their friends or any of my aunts and uncles hold hands. Up until that point, frankly, I had no idea people over age 40 held hands. And I think--ok, yes, I'm probably giving my 19-or-20-year-old self way too much credit here--but I think I got it. I saw that hand holding for what it was: the obvious comfort in each other's company, the affection and amusement, the companionship.

My parents loved each other but they were opposites. They sparred and sparked and tussled and tore. Their relationship was the stuff of romance and drama, so appealing and exciting that most of my siblings chose a similar sort of marriage. But sparks can so easily ignite a raging fire that shrivels the skin and leaves lasting scars. I didn't want that. I didn't know how much I didn't want that, until that night, walking behind Joe and Carol, I saw a different sort of marriage, one in which the sparks glowed steadily, like a warming fire flickering behind the grate. Without even realizing it, I made a choice that night.

We've been so lucky. Keith and I have walked on so many city streets--New York, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Houston, London, Dublin, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Orvieto--and we've walked holding hands.

So I hung up the phone and I cried. Cried in sorrow for what is gone and will be so missed, cried in thanks for all that was, and cried in wonder for the way the simplest things--an ice cream cone, a burst of laughter, a couple holding hands--can change, and make, one's world.