No. 8: Skin and Eyes and Blood and Bones

How to explain that these bodies aren't perfect?

NOTE: If you’ve been reading HAS-BEEN, you’ll notice that this piece is a bit different from the usual—a little shorter, more personal, more lyrical. It’s the type of writing I used to do when I was younger, in the voice I’ve been trying to find again. If you like it, please let me know by commenting or sharing or subscribing. (If you don’t like it, you can also let me know in the comments but please be kind.)

ALSO: After some internal debate, I’ve decided to pause this newsletter through the end of March in order to spend some much-needed time with family and also catch up on novel revisions. Thank you in advance for your understanding. I’ll see you again in April.

Acrylic painting by Diango Hernandez Torres

I write this while still reeling from tragic news I haven’t swallowed. It sits, unprocessed, beneath my tongue; behind my eyes. It spills, little by little when I’m not careful, onto my cheeks. The same face flashes across my memory. Others, too.

The world has felt so heavy. I know that isn’t news. I know that we’ve all settled, or not, beneath this crushing weight—this sadness, terror, guilt. It’s not why I’m crying. It’s not why I held my son extra tight tonight, tucking his half-moon child cheek into the hungry crook of my neck. Not tonight.

He’s three and doesn’t ask about death but it’s coming, rushing toward us. We sense its nearness in the way he repeats unfamiliar words, unfurling the ends; in the way he inspects the framed photo on the dresser of his dad and his dad’s dad. In the photo, so similar, both faces are laughing. In the photo, so similar, neither is sick.

“Do you have a dad?” He asks, a tight fist against a broad chest.

“I did,” his dad says. He blinks. He looks away.

I had a dad, too, but our son doesn’t ask about him. He knows that Grandpa lives near the beach in Kailua and sleeps a lot; that he can’t control his hands. He doesn’t cook anymore, or play the guitar, or sing, or yell. He’s still there but he’s constantly threatening to leave and he isn’t the dad that I knew, the dad that I had. My son will never share my memories from before the tremors and quiet; before it was hard to make him mad. Our brains all grow and shrink, refusing to let the others catch up, refusing to give any of us the time we need, the time we thought we had.

“You’ll notice a decline,” he tells me. “But don’t worry. It’s not hereditary.”

We’re packing for a trip to see him, and old friends, and many ghosts. We’ll pass the houses I used to get high in, or watch other people get high in. Some of those people hate me now. Some of them have kids. Some of them are gone.

We’ll stand in the sand, our sinking toes sending hermit crabs scurrying into the sea. My son’s afraid of their pinchers because he doesn’t know yet what to be afraid of. He doesn’t know that not far from here—not even across town—a boy his age whose dad we loved is being told that his dad is gone. The faces flash. My cheeks are wet.

We’ll be at the beach, and there will be chanting, and the surfers will paddle out to circle the rocking waves. They’ll gently drop blessed ashes and flowers and salt into salt, home. The next day, depending on the weather, their bruised petals will wash upon the shore, strands still intact, charming the tourists on their sunset walks.

“Look,” they’ll say. “How pretty. How lucky we are.”

“Look,” I’ll tell my son. “How loved. How lucky we are.”

Before he was born, my husband and I listed the features we’d give him if we could: his skin and eyes and temperament; my hair and teeth and health. Each day, we marvel at the person we made with the tools we had. At the beach, the back of his neck will turn coconut-tan. He’ll look like he belongs in my home, like it swims in his blood. We still don’t know which parts are ours or his. We still don’t know which parts the world will choose to keep or give or wash away.

If I die first, my husband knows to bring me home. He knows to paddle out and cast my ashes into the sea, to let them wash ashore with the flowers tattooed on my skin. That’s where I’ll belong. But now I belong to them: to the boy with the wide-eyed questions and silly fears and chubby cheeks; to the sweet, neurotic dog, her silky curls covering fresh scars; to the man in the other room, on the phone, trying not to cry.

“We lost him,” he says. He has to say it several times.

I remember the first time I heard my dad breaking, and the second. I remember a friend’s voice saying: “I don’t want to be the one to tell you.” I remember getting the news via an online article that another friend texted while I was in Mexico for a wedding. I sometimes think about the ones that haven’t happened yet. The ones that shouldn’t but probably will.

Shortly after we met, my husband almost died. When he didn’t, we threw a party and he stood on the stage with his head shaved and bones weak and body pumping borrowed blood. It wasn’t done, but it was a celebration.

“You must be so relieved,” everyone said. “You must be thrilled. You must tell him to take this supplement instead of his medications, and see this specialist, and read this article that says it might be hereditary. Don’t worry, but it might be hereditary.”

His skin and eyes and temperament. My hair and teeth and health. My blood and bones. Please, my blood and bones.

In traditional Hawaiian culture, bones were viewed as the body’s most sacred part, where it contained its soul. When someone died, their bones would be washed, wrapped and buried in secret caves to prepare the spirit for the afterlife. Now they’re burned to ash. Now they’re just bones, fracturing and breaking and getting cancer.

How to explain that these bodies aren’t perfect? That they do things for us, yes, but also to us? That some of them can’t stop shaking, and some of us can’t stop doing the things that make them shake?

When your body’s growing, it’s a wonder to everyone but you. When you’re only getting bigger and stronger, you don’t know to be afraid of getting hurt. But bodies can get very hurt, or very sick. Bodies can stop working. No, not my body. Not Daddy’s body. No, not for a very long time.

Feels appropriate to include this piece, and this poem, and this.

I’m so glad that somebody finally made this video, and I love this series. This article made me snicker. The salad I make on repeat as soon as strawberries are in season. A fun idea for Easter brunch. A genius dining table design, and a gorgeous chair. Do we need to update our star sign? (I vote no.) The cutest kids’ curtains (and another funny celeb collab.) Everything about this home. I legit feel like I’d be good at this job. These are my favorite everyday sneakers (I’ve had the black and tan for years, and recently added the bone and gray to my collection.) I also recently discovered these snack bars and my son loves them (and I love that they’re wrapped in edible paper so his hands don’t get sticky!)