CHAPTER 1
The Little Things
The little things. The click of your wife's makeup bottles and brushes in thebathroom in the morning, the subsurface sound of them, a kind of music. Theaccompaniments: the older boy's bedroom door opening and shutting in haste, afaucet running, a gust of wind in the eucalyptus, the last rain on the window.The little things are what we remember, what we know, of family life. Of life.
The large events have their place, but even the large events of a family'spassage are assembled from little things. The rush to the emergency room and theway the air feels there and the brave little chin thrust up beneath the mask,the small choked cry and the sound—especially this sound—of the thread beingpulled through the wound, and the way the little hand holds tight to yourfinger. The little things.
Without realizing it, we can neglect the little things.
Though I have never divorced and my vow is for life, I have like most peopleexperienced a broken relationship or two. Grief does not attach itself so muchto the empty space left by the other person, a loss often too abstract to grasp,but to the little things. The vertical space in the closet where familiarclothes once hung. The smell on the pillow or, on the street, a stranger'saccent that conjures up a silenced voice.
When our parents and loved ones die, little things come back. Returning homeafter a death, you find a quilt that wrapped around you long ago, and youremember how the hands felt as they tucked you in. You find yourself startled bythe way the dishes are arranged in your parent's kitchen cabinet; you aresurprised because you know the arrangement, and you did not know it was sofamiliar until you looked at it within the context of loss.
The impression most remembered from my grandmother's death is not of the largefact of her body in the casket, but of coming into her cold kitchen a few daysafterward and seeing the jar of mincemeat cookies, which she often made for meand my brother. In the jar, then, they were covered with mold.
Just as family grief is articulated by little things, so is joy. Here is anexercise: Go through your house when everyone is away and, in the silence, lookfor these little things.
In my house, I see the drawing of Wyoming with the owl in the tree singing, "Ho,ho, ho," and the little wooden toolbox, with the name Matt carved on the side,filled with crayons, some of them peeled. The smell of them connects you intime. The crumbs on top of the toaster, the empty cereal boxes left out, seemsuddenly precious. So do the stacks of games—Candyland, Clue, Monopoly. Eachfamily's Monopoly is stamped with its unique patina of worn corners and stainedChance cards. Little things.
The fishing rods leaning against the corner of the garage, some from my ownchildhood, some bought for the boys. The rods stand tall together. Shelvesfilled with books; most of them old, neglected friends, each with a story totell.
A balsa glider on the stairs. At the top of the landing, a small landscape, astop-time mountain scene painted in oils by the boys' grandfather. Once, twice,the bullfrog in my older son's room harrumphs, because spring is coming; in adistant time, when my sons or my wife or I, alone or together, drive past somestream or pond surrounded by reeds shaking with redwing blackbirds, we will hearthis particular booming sound and in it recognize these years of our familylife.
In the largest bedroom, the smell of a comforter; and in the closet, my wife'sclothing hangs neat and fresh. And all around the room the bottles of roses,which she has carefully dried over seventeen years, all the roses I have given,not one missed. And beside the bathtub a thick, red, scented candle with lots oftime left in it.
Here is the next part of this exercise: When your family is home again, listento them, watch them, wait for the sounds and smells and tilted chins and theshouted competitions between the children and the sighs of the house as it slipsinto sleep. Hold these things. These little things are everything.
Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threadswhich sew people together through the years.
—Simone Signoret
The Essence of Family
Memory, it seems to me, is the essence of family; the longer and deeper thememory, the stronger the family. By stronger I do not necessarily mean better.Just stronger.
I was talking to a friend the other day about memory. We were sharing a feelingthat we both have had, but seldom discuss, that we are the bearers of ourparents, the vessels that hold the images and sounds and touch of...
