Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Death Be Not Proud




So, today, three days after learning of my dear friend's death, I'm going through the motions of the day. There are few people who I can talk to about her death, few friends we had in common. And, anyway, in our culture, no one really wants to talk about death and grieving for more than the courteous " I'm sorry for your loss". I find myself wanting to talk about Suzanne, write about her, think about her. It's as if I can wish her back if I keep her front and center.

It doesn't help that my father died suddenly when I was 19. This is the first person since him that I have loved, and haven't been able to say my goodbyes to. And there are similarities. He was 60 and collapsed with a heart attack, she was 63. He claimed no prior illness yet the physician said he had a compromised heart for at least a year before he collapsed and died. She had no known history of congestive heart failure or heart disease. But congestive heart failure is a slow, slow disease that creates lots of shortness of breath--which she must have felt. It makes both of their deaths seem preventable to me, although I know that isn't the way it was. And what could have been, doesn't matter.

I walk down the street talking to her--telling her goodbye--or telling her what I'm thinking about. Sometimes a tear involuntarily slides down my cheek as I absorb the fact that we will never walk together again on the sidewalks of New York.

This noon I decided I had to get out of my apartment. I went to a restaurant for lunch that I haven't been to for two years--since it changed to Turkish cuisine. Why? I'm going to Istanbul on May 12 for nearly a month to tour Turkey and Greece. Specifically, I'm going to trace the path of evangelical Paul in 1st century Asia Minor with a group of scholars. A taste of Turkish food seemed like a good diversion.

And what a diversion it was. The restaurant was nearly empty. Next to me, a young man with clean shaven head came in with an older woman. They began speaking what I thought was French, then realized it was Turkish. The man began taking photos with a professional camera, moving around the room focusing his lens on tables and chairs, food displays. At one point, he asked if he could take my picture. I nodded.

Orthan introduced himself as the new owner of Zeytin. I told him I loved the room although it kept changing hands and cuisines since I first fell in love with it in 2002. He agreed, and told me that he and his partner were going to make it a venue for authentic Turkish food--just like the kind you find in Istanbul where he grew up and continues to visit several times a year. He invited me to his opening next week.

He also offered to help me plan my time in Istanbul after the tour is over. And he handed me a card with the name of his other tiny Turkish restaurant he owns on 17th Street. "Look at that site and you will soon see your picture." ( See picture above of 101 Restaurant above--no M.C. yet! )

After lunch, I went to Columbus Bakery, the Upper West Side's answer to Starbuck's with a few exceptions.There's no exotic music, noisy terazzo floors, no lattes, and every age group.There are mothers with infants, school age kids having an afternoon snack with their nannies, aspiring playwrights working on their manuscripts, and terrific pastries.Today, there were two men sitting at one of the marble-topped ice cream tables: one with long, stringy grey hair and an unkempt beard and wire rim glasses; the other, with graying temples and slight build, wearing a USPS-emblemmed baby blue short sleeved shirt. They were engrossed in a chess game including the timer for each move. Neither of them spoke for an entire hour, just moved the chess pieces deliberately on the board. They play chess at the same table at the same time every day. I find that oddly comforting.

I know from personal experience that you can't go forward, you can't trick grief and loss by trying to move on before it is ready to loosen its natural, necessary grip.

But, even knowing that, what I needed today was a respite from mortality and its gravity. And I got that break.
Grace comes in the strangest ways, doesn't it?
M.C.

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