“My Little Flower, Where Are You Going?” That’s the name of this painting my brother did, which I found in a box of art supplies my mother salvaged from his apartment. It’s a nod to the Italian song “Piccolo Fiore” by Vittorio Merlo, a rough translation of “piccolo fiore dove vai.” The song is one my grandmother, Lucia, would play for him. At first glance, the painting looks like it could be many things: a self portrait, a portrait of me. But the more I thought about it, I realized that it was actually a portrait of my grandmother in death, eyes closed, white hair, as she looked in her casket. The painting is dated March 3, 2009, and Lucia passed away the month before, in late February. I cannot remember any specific conversations with Andrew about the painting, but it feels right, and I’m learning to listen to the intuition of the dead. •
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I think differently now. When I come across these objects from the past, I go into deduction mode, filling my mind with the material of possibilities, then filtering out as many unlikelihoods as possible. Then my next thought, always: “I should ask Andrew about this.” And then I remember he’s gone. It’s a sharp, sad stab, but quicker now. It’s my way of communicating with him, even just the idea of him. It’s how I continue our relationship. It’s how I keep the dead alive. •
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“Two days after he died, on a hot May day, my parents and I went to clean out his apartment. The kitchen was filthy. Dirty dishes towered in the sink, crusted over with remnants of rotting food. The oven was coated with a mixture of blackened grease and burnt food. His cupboards were not completely empty, and I thought, well, at least he didn’t die hungry. But I saw the strangest thing: In the cupboard above the sink, there were several boxes of opened macaroni and cheese. The noodles were there but the cheese packets were missing, and despite the zombie-like sadness that had taken over my body, I laughed. •
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There were vases of dead flowers in murky water, surrounded by their dropped petals that had started to curl. There was a cup of coffee and a bowl of vegetable soup, just a thin layer of broth and two string beans remaining. The makeup bag was in the bathroom and the clothes were folded and put away in the makeshift wardrobe system he had devised—some plastic drawer sets, a tall, skinny wooden tower of drawers that my mother had given to him, some plastic storage bins.”
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My newest essay — part of the book I’m writing — is up now at @catapultcatapult, one of my dream publications. A huge thank you to @mensah.demary, who is an incredible editor dedicated to protecting the integrity of the work. Link in bio.
