Beau died two weeks ago today. I woke up at 6:30 a.m, which was his time of death. Since then, I really haven’t been able to get out of bed. Movement seems as difficult as the Times crossword puzzle. I’m glad I have a cozy bed with beautiful memories of Asia all around me.
I tried to start a scrapbook of cards, letters and pictures from Beau’s memorial service and luncheon. But the inserts I bought to go with it won’t fit. So I have loose pages with no book to bind them together. A perfect metaphor. It just figures, too, that my book about my dad, “Brain in a Jar,” hasn’t been purchased by any publisher. And, what’s more, I’d like to exercise but both my shoulders and right ankle are injured.
Everything is broken.
I keep fixating on something my Uncle Pete reminded me of at the luncheon: We (Woodson descendants) are related to Jesse Woodson James, the great bank robber. Beau adored Jesse James because he was so good at what he did, even though it was bad.
I once told my dad (just to annoy him) that I was thinking of becoming a bank robber. Beau said that I’d better do it as well as my cousin Jesse. “Whatever you do, Gal, be the best at it,” he said. A few years later, I called my dad from Tanzania to say I fell in love with a Turkish man there. All Beau said was, “Well, Gal, you may not be his only wife, but be sure to be his best one.”
Dad, for now, until I get my gun-slinging adventure-seeking gumption back, I’m going to be the best at being sad.