The Wake

Here in 2010 I find myself very busy in March as the snow melts and spring starts to appear on the horizon. My cell phone rings all day long and I drive here and there. I look back to my quiet island life with some solace thinking of it's utter simplicity now that my life is so complex.

My life then, my life now.

My life then: solitude, coal fire, daily weaving, letters from my parents who were busy with their lives, a kind of wistful longing, walks to the shore, meals by myself.

My life now: so many doctor appointments for my parents, watching them age, living with my husband, meals with him, our own house, driving, Internet, cell phone, wistful looks at the pile of island memorabilia on the table by the stairs.

I think back to my island life. How deeply it acquainted me with solitude,and death.
So now, I think back to the rhythm of island life. I am back on the island in early march. Everyone is busy getting the gardens ready for spring, hauling seaweed up in baskets on the back of a donkey. Laying that seaweed down in rows. Cutting the seed potatoes just so. The island stirs back to life. A few tourists are seen. And in the midst of the cycle of the island coming back to life old Petey dies. In fact, right in front of me as I make my way to Mass. There I am walking to mass that Sunday and faith if he isn't walking ahead of me.So he is...And then he falls, and that's it.
Ah sure, the word goes around fast, faith Petey's dead so he is. Petey is a fine strong man from the Formna village. His face had been creased in grief for a long time over the untimely death of his wife...and now he finds his peace.

Somewhere on the island a simple wooden coffin is pounded together. If you listen carefully you can hear the nails being pounded into the sides...and soon, all too soon, the lid.

But first the wake. I know the island rhythm now and I walk carefully up to the house where the wake is held. I push open the door and walk in. A solemn atmosphere fills the quiet space. I am handed a glass of whiskey, or sherry. I sip it quietly, knowing what to do next. Yes, I am now woven into island life and so it is that I am woven in.

When the time is right, I go into the back bedroom where a woman sits with the body. There he is, old Petey. All quiet and at rest, Catholic rest. He has the traditional brown cassock worn by the faithful at the time of death. His cold hands are clutched round the rosary and sure when the talk went round about Petey's death wasn't everyone after saying...that ah sure Petey died on the way to mass....and faith he never missed a day of mass...ah sure, tis how it tis so...what a holy man. and now he lies there.

I take my seat in the aft room again. Eating the proffered cakes and drinking another glass of something strong. I am sure I say the right things, or at least I try to.
Even though I was a single woman I had visited Petey several times on the island. A glint in his eye and a glint in the eye of other's that, faith, now there's a good match for you.
But not even a fledgling romance occurred and now he's dead. And I have taken my place at the wake. Solemn and sad.

Somewhere in my soul there is a Jewish spark flying around, even at that moment. Wondering and wandering, I know my soul is from somewhere else, but where will it land? There's a similar relationship to death between the Catholics and the Jews. The body is never left alone and is placed in a simple coffin. Catholic, Jew, Christian. All, all of it ends in the great mystery. I attend to that moment now, here as winter ends on the tundra.

I walk by the creek here in Minneapolis. There is a lovely reflection of the trees and the melting snow in the waters that are starting to rush by. I sit down and look into those waters. I sit there quietly as spring starts to warm the ice and melt it. I sit there as memory rushes by. I am lucky. I have my memories and my reflections of my island life. Perhaps it all starts to thaw now. The creek of memory is full now, it rushes by and then I am carried away by it...tumbling, tumbling all the way down to the great river which I fasten myself to all the way out to sea.