Sequel

Submerged memories surfaced by a mnemonic exercise like a sleigh of hand recall of events by year. 1972 came   

easily to mind as birth year of youngest son but by 1976 life had unraveled, and by Summer was fraught with joy and conflict by turns as both our visiting children came

and went.  At end of the season in lieu of been given

recognition for my travails, he simply disappeared.

In Winter the one who had been his wife clambered

up my stairs and with tremulous hands held mine and

thanked me profusely for caring for her children. It did much to mitigate his ingratitude.

In Spring in those carefree Berkeley days when locking a door was still a choice, he came in through back stairs to lay in wait on my chaise longue.  I saw first his pharaonic profile outlined as shadow on wall. He launched into justifications immediately, as if in answer to my unvoiced questions. I barely listened. Now I can’t fathom what led me to consider continue a relationship based as it was on false premises.  And why? Can I credit myself with compassion or a sense I had met my match in perversity?  Other more convoluted reasons occurred to me…

In my circle it was not unusual to ‘drop’ acid before

contemplating an important decision, I partook as reverentially as previously receiving the Eucharist. Few relationships would have survived such scrutiny. I offered him a ‘hit’ to join me but predictably he declined.

In the moonlight as he fell asleep. I sat like a cat ready to pounce on edge of chair examined his face and said in ‘sotto voce’, “Does he imagine he can evade me again?” Not to mention the outrage of someone allowing one to be alone during a ‘trip.’ Perhaps unclear to older generation.

What followed was a silent battle that lasted for hours,

no worse, time seeped backwards into hourglass.

I stood my ground and finally close to dawn he began

to speak, and so cogently, as if he heard my thoughts

and was responding to my questions. A visiting friend , Dorian from Paris commented on my reluctance to leave with: “Even Christ paid his Karmic debt with only three days of agony!” The absurdity of such a grandiose comparison resonated in my ears and drove me into paroxysms of laughter!

This went on for days, nay years, until we grew weary…

As way of a parting gift I tore all the pages of my journal

that at all related to him, and slid them into his, to make certain nothing was left unsaid, nothing lost.

I did learn from him that suffering was not inevitable

but an act of volition. Perhaps I learned more from him than I now care to admit.

In the Fall we could go no further, there was no assignment of guilt or witness. The knots that tied us no longer held We separated then, and limped away from each.

                                             

                                              

                                                     Antonia Baranov