And what happens when the pattern is intolerable? What then?
To be human is to know the pattern widow intimately. She is alive and well in each one of us and memorialized in archetype.
And sometimes, be it the sting, the speed, the violence, the dark wit, saying “no” is the only decision that makes sense.
And that is the true heartbreak.
As I wander through my back garden, I pause to say hello to the trees planted in memoriam.
Recently a need for a new tree arose. It just so happens I had the perfect tree. A volunteer tulip tree, Liriodendron, had found its way to a shady spot in my front yard. One of the tallest North American hardwood trees, the tulip tree is happiest when planted in fertile soil and full sun. It is called a tulip tree because of its showy springtime bright yellow tulip shaped flowers. It is the perfect tree for this moment.
My 10 o’clock walks into the back yard. “Whatcha doing?” he asks.
“Finding a home for a new tree.” I say.
“Ahh yes, Muffy’s homage to being a difficult person.” He says.
“Takes one to know one.” I say. “You really can be such a bitch.” I add.
“At your service Mam.” He says. “Always glad to be the worst. Thanks for putting up with me all these years”
It’s an old joke between us. “You are the easy one.” I say.
Regardless, the receipts were thrown away long ago. Neither of us can return the other now. Patterns and all. It wasn’t always like this, mind you. Mr. 10 O’Clock and I have had a couple moments, where it was too close to call.
“This last one was brutal.” I don’t think I have any more room for this type of loss.” I say.
“Certainly no more room for more trees.” He says.
“Yah. Especially because you do the digging.” I say.
“What type?” He asks.
“A tulip tree.” I say.
“Oooh wee!” He rolls his eyes and croons. “Must be a beauty of a pattern.” He adds.
I nod my head as an acknowledgement and begin to weep. “A beauty.” I whisper.
Snot is running down my face and coating my lips.
Mr. 10 o’clock hands me a handkerchief. “Come on now, clean yourself up.” He says. He stretches his arm out leaning back as he thrusts the handkerchief in my direction.
I move to hand him back the handkerchief and he squeals like a pig. “Eeeeek!” He hollers. For such an unflappable human he is surprisingly squeamish about mucus. Words I am “forbidden” to uttering in front of him include: snot, mucus and the most terrifying of all, ear wax. On a bad day my pleasure for ear wax could send him packing. We walk a tight knife’s edge with this kink of mine.
Weird pattern. Not funny after all.
So I adapted. My fascination is now a private exploration.
I laugh and hobble towards him. “God damn it. I wish I could catch you.” I moan.
My illness has finally overtaken my gait entirely. I move like a drunken sailor.
He beams and chuckles. “You are adorable!” He says. I roll my eyes.
Adorable is not the word I would choose.
We are both a bit breathless from our game of tag. I point to the two chairs in the yard. “Sit with me for a minute would you?” I ask.
He bristles. Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I promise I will tick-check you” I say.
We sit in silence, moving the chairs from time to time to catch a new perspective on where to plant the tree.
And then just as we begin to shift our chairs towards the north, the planting spot catches our attention.
Bright sunshine abounds and we are encircled in a warm and golden hue.
A homecoming.
…
A few weeks later as summer turns towards fall, Mr.10 o’clock digs a hole for our six inch tulip tree. We mix in some compost and place her roots in the dirt.
“Be well, tiny tree.” I whisper. “Show this spot of heaven what you got!” He says.