There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
-- T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
And I wanted to remember it. Maybe I'm developing a taste for poetry.
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories
packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
In other news - Tai is definitely on the mend. His whining was confined only to the hours we were at home - while we were out to lunch with Anat, Karen and Talya and while we were walking with Mom he was totally fine and charming (though still snotty). I'm glad he's feeling better - when he's sick he's so pathetic, with his big, staring eyes and his little bottom lip tucked under.
Oddly, he's been refusing the bottle the past couple of nights. Not sure what that's about - it's a bummer because Tom likes to hold him and rock him to sleep sometimes. And because I like to have a bit of time to myself. I think he might be teething - or it could be that he just wants his Momma because he's still not feeling quite right. Either way, I'm telling myself that this too shall pass, and trying to enjoy the quiet time while we rock.
At 2:30am on Thursday, it will be exactly a year since I went into labor with Tai. I've been thinking a lot about his birth lately, needless to say. More on that soon. Also - I wonder if he has any sort of memory of the experience - our labor and his birth? A physical memory, maybe. I wonder if that could be contributing to his restlessness?