DREAMSCAPE

Scene 1
I’m walking towards public bathrooms when I pass a woman who has the appearance of an Indian laborer. She hands me a key to a locked outhouse which is a much cleaner toilet. I am just about to squat to take a pee when there is banging on the door and a male voice calling for Vasanthi. I assume it was the name of the woman who gave me the key.

I open the door slightly to reveal I am not Vasanthi inside but who nevertheless was using the toilet legitimately as I was given the key. The man looked passed me at a couple bare open shelves mounted below the roof near the corner and said a snake had been seen there recently and he had come to check.

Scene 2
Raphael and I are out walking when we realize it’s going to rain. We happen to be passing a squat rectangular structure that looks like a one room shack and with a quick glance at each other that confirms we have the same thought, we turn into the dwelling that’s situated just off the path. No sooner had we entered then we hear the deluge pouring out from the sky. We had found shelter in the nick of time.

The darkened room is bare but not empty. I first see one person rolled up in a blanket on the floor in the corner opposite the door and then realize there’s another person sleeping to the side of the door we had just opened. They acknowledge our arrival but nothing else. We sit down on our haunches on the dirt floor to wait out the storm.

Scene 3
The path we’re traveling on turns muddy and soon a raging body of water is flowing across the path in front of us. Remnants of a building that looks like it had either been bombed, or on which an earthquake had done a number, emerge above the water with rebar and concrete pillars that lend handholds as we enter and prepare to cross. I am ahead and with my mind made up, I push my bicycle into the turbulence and forge ahead. But in a split second I realize the water is too deep and  quickly make a u-turn shaking my head indicating the impossibility of crossing.

On the dry path again beside the angry water, a man in uniform who might be a policeman stands with open notepad and pen and by the look on his face we intuit that entering the water area was illegal. We, of course, were unaware of our trespassing. When the officer asks for my address that is specifically a P. O. address, I hold up a document so he can see the contents, and explain that I have only a street address, he resigns to letting us go free.

CHILDHOOD REVISITED

Chatted with Ken last night. It seems like we have the same conversation every time, but it’s always crazy fun.

He loves to tell me about my dad and how much he admires him. At one time, he would visit Dad weekly at the Division office in Salisbury Park just to chat. Dad would question him about some rumor circulating about Ken's questioning some particular doctrine and they would laugh it off together. Another time near the GC office in Maryland he runs into my dad and Pr. Hetke. Hetke, he claims, didn't acknowledge him, but dad stopped to chat and congratulated him. He had heard Ken had become a father. 

Another subject is Ken's great talents and intelligence. He talks at length about the book he's published. How he wrote it in a few weeks. What a great piece of writing it is. Have I read it yet? (I have.) He's writing another book--far from conventional, in fact, very weird, but he's concerned his children may read it and that keeps him from writing freely. 

We talk about our kids and parenting. He's been a good father. We talk about our parents and how our families' lives have been interwoven. How much more we have in common that we acknowledge.

He boasts his singing voice has improved and his range is now quite impressive. He sings Freddie Mercury covers and promises to sing for me next time I visit.

Our conversation strays to old friends and school mates. How we must get together for a friends' reunion while we are still healthy.

He never fails to tell me that I am the first girl he's kissed, the only girl he's ever been in love with. 

He: Come here, Lorna. Come, be with me. We were meant to be together.

Me: Ken, are you drunk?

He: Yes.

We hang up laughing.

PARENTING

I’ve always felt that becoming a mother was the best thing that happened to me in my life. Why? I didn’t know until this morning while riding my bicycle.

Pedaling down Ridgecrest I realize that all my physical and mental energy found their focus on these two little babies that depended on me for everything. It brought me and kept me in the moment. And the first moment led to the second moment and the third, the fourth, until In the blink of an eye, years had gone by.

Gone was the anxious restlessness which dominates a large part of my nature.

[“And it was as if she had never been.” —listening to Romain Rabot’s son in concert on Flat Pack Music streaming live now on Facebook. He is an excellent bass soloist.]

My first thought was that I must share this important discovery with Preeti. Perhaps becoming a mother is her destiny. She just doesn’t know it.

If being a parent brought the greatest joys, it also brought the greatest anguish.

But now I will return to the day, and to the moments of restlessness and mental wanderings.

GLOOM

I've been feeling glum and listless today. I've gardened, cooked and cleaned and even did a little yoga -- but mostly without any joy.

I have so many friends when I'm upbeat, but so lonely when I'm in this mood. I yearn to talk to someone only to give me something to do because I have no interest in any routine activity. I dialed up Preeti twice but she didn't answer. I called Daphne but after a few minutes she had to go.

I did get Mum on Skype after ages. But she was distracted and worried about the cat saying if she didn't open the door and put food out, the cat would sulk and disappear for a long time.

I started watching a Netflix movie with Raphael, but after I was sort of getting into it, he ended it as it wasn't to his liking. I have this thing about ending anything halfway. Even if it's a movie I don't care for, I will usually watch it to the end though there are definite exceptions.I was in no mood to test out another movie only to have it prematurely ended for the second time in the same evening, so I walked out and decided to do a little work.

I did most of the work on an invoice for our Specialty Crops grant.

It's half past nine and I'm waiting to hear from Catherine so I can arrange a ride back home for her. She wasn't feeling too good and needed a ride to the hospital. We got her a Lyft ride as I wasn't going to risk going to the hospital.

I felt like listening to something different so I found Mehdi Hassan listed on one of Uncle Justin's FB posts. Some beautiful old ghazals. I don't understand most of what he's singing. A word her and there.

I think I'll take a walk on the street outside. Perhaps it's cooled down.

Later.
No, it hadn’t really cooled down. It was lovely though to be outside in the open with absolutely no one else in sight.

And Catherine finally was released with a diagnosis of UTI. I could rest after I confirmed she connected with her Lyft driver - which chanced to be a woman which must have helped set her at ease.

STREET DANCING DURING COVID

I called the neighbors to an impromptu party yesterday. At 9 pm, you could tell who the real party animals were.

Monica and Todd - brought out the music box and sparklers.
Raphael and I  arrived with fake fireflies in a jar.
Thirty minutes later Merna returned from her 70th birthday party and joined us.
Henrietta and Steve arrived with Sam --mostly for a social chat.
The women were the serious dancers.
Yeah. Love our neighbors . . . and dancing.

We say goodnight and promise to do it more regularly.

KHARKONGOR ANCESTRY

My Khasi heritage can be traced 17 generations all the way to the first clan mother. As in a matrilineal culture, all descending individuals are mothers.

Ka Mohkynhong / Kharkongor Clan Mother (Circa 1500) Ka Iew Kharkongor Ka Lah Kharkongor Ka Sohmian Kharkongor Ka San Kharkongor Ka Jat Kharkongor Ka Shngain Kharkongor Ka Laitbuh Kharkongor Ka Lir Kharkongor Ka Ron Kharkongor Ka Shkiah Kharkongor Ka Shira Kharkongor Ka Shylluid Kharkongor Ka Queensilies Kharkongor Wallang Ka Birol K Wallang Christo Ka Lorna K Christo Samraj Ka Preeti K Samraj

MOM and MELANCHOLIA

Yesterday on my way out the bathroom, I paused to look at a picture of dad in the hall. He looks into my eyes, a sweet affectionate smile on his face. I feel no sorrow, only a deep love and a close bond. His declining health over a number of years, and many opportunities to visit with him lent me the necessary time to process the loss emotionally before his last day.

As I looked at dad, another thought hit me almost simultaneously, that it would be much different with Mom. That an end to her current physical energy and vivacious spirit would devastate me.

That was yesterday.

This morning, while still in bed I reached for my tablet on the night stand to check my email messages. More often than not, there is one from mom and yes, there was one from her.

In her email she tells me that she has written a lengthy letter to her sister Juanita about her memory of their brother Hunter who died when he was four years old -- many years before my aunt was born. She goes on to narrate some of those details to me. I know the details already as mom has always enjoyed telling us stories from her childhood and youth.

But I was taken aback when she ended her letter with, "Ok my beloved sister, must stop here. Nga Ieit ia phi kat u Shiap ka duriaw . Deng"

I have gotten used to mom's occasional lapses in memory. Her retelling of an event, the repetition of the day's activity. Surely, there's room for memory lapses without raising alarm. I mean, Mom spends a lot of time writing emails everyday to her children and her sisters that it's inevitable she will repeat herself.

More recently though I've noticed a lack of focus in her emails. In a few emails she has repeated herself in the same email. It caught my attention the first time but I didn't think it was a big deal. Sometimes she is interrupted in her writing by power outages, or a trip to the bathroom, or some other chore that delays her finishing a letter until sometime later.

Today, I am deeply alarmed. For mom to forget by the end of her email that she was writing to me is disturbing.

I want to go to her. I want her to stop cutting up newspapers and thinking of Covid. Instead I want us to cook and clean together, look at old photographs and play Boggle. I want to put my arms around her and hold her for a long time. I want her rooms filled with our chatter; hear our laughter ring out loudly.