Independence Day, we celebrated my baby brother's 30th, a day late.
That morning, for the first time, I realized it was our first family gathering without Dad.
It was a low-key gathering as usual. Mom had some printouts of short articles about coping with grief. I read through most of them, didn't recognize much of my own reactions in them.
Though Anita points out I've become more combative about things I care about. Can't really deny that.
My father's ashes are in a simple yet elegant black box on a shelf in his office. My brother set out a small array of family photos in front of it, and Dad's glasses are perched atop the box lid. It's kind of charming, almost a little comical.
Today at work the news breaks that Cy Twombly has died. Mr. Twombly was an artist renowned the world over, who was born in and lived at least part of every year in nearby Lexington. This is a job for the arts reporter.
At first I'm not optimistic I'll pull much together — throughout his entire life Twombly avoided us reporters like the plague we are, and those around him always respected his wishes — but as it turns out, now that he's gone, his friends were more than happy to talk at last about this man they knew, and I learn that, media-phobia aside, Twombly was an admirable, likable, generous and charming fellow.
And as I'm transcribing from my notes his personal assistant's blunt and moving statement about his own mourning, I feel tears coming on, and for a little while, I have to stop typing.
That morning, for the first time, I realized it was our first family gathering without Dad.
It was a low-key gathering as usual. Mom had some printouts of short articles about coping with grief. I read through most of them, didn't recognize much of my own reactions in them.
Though Anita points out I've become more combative about things I care about. Can't really deny that.
My father's ashes are in a simple yet elegant black box on a shelf in his office. My brother set out a small array of family photos in front of it, and Dad's glasses are perched atop the box lid. It's kind of charming, almost a little comical.
Today at work the news breaks that Cy Twombly has died. Mr. Twombly was an artist renowned the world over, who was born in and lived at least part of every year in nearby Lexington. This is a job for the arts reporter.
At first I'm not optimistic I'll pull much together — throughout his entire life Twombly avoided us reporters like the plague we are, and those around him always respected his wishes — but as it turns out, now that he's gone, his friends were more than happy to talk at last about this man they knew, and I learn that, media-phobia aside, Twombly was an admirable, likable, generous and charming fellow.
And as I'm transcribing from my notes his personal assistant's blunt and moving statement about his own mourning, I feel tears coming on, and for a little while, I have to stop typing.