NOT A GOOD SIGN

[schlomo]

Not a Good Sign

The other day on the bus, I noticed a young woman enter with her toddler and some bulky luggage. The boy quickly sat in the outside seat. The mother encouraged him to move over so that she would have more space for the luggage. The boy refused to budge. She again asked him to slide into the other seat. He once more stayed put. With more emphasis, the mother implored him to move. He didn’t. The mother then gave up. She had to hoist the luggage and herself across the boy, who seemed utterly unconcerned about this cumbersome process. Well, what do you expect from a kid, eh? After all, he could have been in the throes of the terrible twos.

Although I’m not clairvoyant, I can imagine this undisciplined child ignoring and even exploiting his parent(s) throughout his life. His selfishness right now might well lead to his self-aggrandizement later as he sees his parent(s) as an impediment to his own ego-driven needs. Why listen to, never mind respect, a parent’s advice or admonishments, whether you are a young child or an adult? After all, parents are inherently obtuse and intrusive; they have nothing useful to say.

I hope that I am wrong about the how the child on the bus will develop as he grows up. But a large dose of common decency, so rarely found in our social media-soaked world, would be a good corrective.

When I was with Celia, the mundane became extraordinary. We often confided in each other that inside, Celia felt like a 12-year-old, and that I likewise felt like a teenager; and as youngsters, we would set out on an adventure around the island to see what “trouble” we could into.

Watching the sparkles on the water at Kahala, to sharing ice cream on the North Shore elevated the commonplace to something “holy” by seeing the world through one another’s eyes: we talked about our frustrations, our joys, and most importantly, our mutual love. No topic was off limits; we bared our souls to each other.

From the beginning, it was quite a spectacle to see this proper British woman and my emotional Italian self so intimately connected. I couldn’t resist touching her and kissing her, which at first she barely tolerated but later yearned for, craving a caress that soothed her. To be held in her gaze as I approached her was the ultimate high. And she felt the same, often telling me that she was blessed with sheer delight whenever I was with her.

At times, Celia spoke of her relationship with God. She said that He sat on her right shoulder and that she could always talk to Him about anything. She awoke each morning with gratitude that she was still alive, especially knowing that she would soon savor a sweet, seductive, forbidden treat.

She encouraged me to find the beauty and goodness in all of life, despite tragedies like the loss of her son Alan. She would often say that our experience can be a heaven or a hell; and she’d immediately add, with an exclamation point in her voice, that she chose heaven. She lived with an open heart, and she celebrated each moment that sustained her.

Celia and I completed each other. We shared our salads and our lives.

Near the end, Mum said “Don’t cry for me: I’ve had a wonderfully long amazing life.” She knew that she would always be inside of me. I’ll carry her within my soul forever.

Every Sunday morning for the past few years, Celia and I spent quality time together. It was a ritual that we both cherished. After she had sipped her coffee (I think that it was Celia who coined the phrase Good ‘til the Last Drop), we devoted about an hour joyfully recalling highlights of our past. I regaled her with my uncensored youthful escapades or my controversial teaching career in the Bible Belt. Celia relished listening to the eventful sagas in my life, as I did hers. She would talk story about her sheltered upbringing in an orthodox Jewish family, or she would recollect on the claustrophobic hideaways in London that protected her from the Nazi Blitz.  But before beginning our tete a tetes, Celia always made sure to ask me if there was any news to report regarding the family dynamics involving my children and grandchildren, and I felt comfortable revealing and reflecting on whatever tidbits I could remember. She reciprocated with detailed vignettes about her loved ones. One more remembrance: Celia loved to hear birds twittering. And whenever she heard me melodiously whistle, she complimented me for reminding her of the alluring bird calls that gave her so much pleasure throughout her life.

I can give you 101 reasons why I honor Celia as a woman of valor, a woman for all seasons, a woman whom I have always respected and revered. Celia was a gift to so many people: all of us will miss her wit, wisdom, and compassion.