MAY 16
...even dead her familiar face made him safe...as if she actu-
ally told him, “I died, that’s all.”
Tears came, and that was it. He held her hand.
It was then for the first time I saw them as they really were.
She, who I once knew as the beginning and end of everything
warm and soft, my only real absolution for everything, was
just a girl, in a blouse with a lace collar, whose name he
couldn’t guess, and he was a handsome boy with blonde
hair, and they met at Coney Island one afternoon.
—JOSEPH PINTAUROWhen our loved ones leave us, one of the ways we keep
their presence alive is by retelling the stories. How was it
when they were younger? What were their favorite stories
about themselves? About us?
Now that they are gone, our imaginations are somehow
freed to claim them in a more expanded way—fanciful and
yet true. Our nostalgia is genuine. It is also benevolent and
tender. We see them in their fragility, as figures in a drama
suspended in time, taking their places along with the le-
gendary figures they used to tell us about. Perhaps we know
them in greater clarity—and charity—than we could when
we were engaged in the dynamics of daily exchange.
My life will continue to be blessed as the stories of my loved one
develop and settle in my mind.