Letter to Mom, January 22, 1986

I just finished reading Stones For Ibarra. I understand why you wanted me to read it.

I've tried to address directly in my writing the questions that Jackie's death raised. But I've always had to stop; I can't get beyond its grisly side yet and write metaphors about the carcass that lay beside me.

For example. this paragraph:
"'Some day we'll all be unnecessary,' he thought,looking at her lying stiff-legged on the bed. It had been a long night. Where the dark had left any openings the sound of soft, guttural scratchings and mournful groans had flooded in. He had paced the room all night pleading with her to stop but she, of course, couldn't hear him, He remembered bringing his face up close to hers and seeing the hopelessly cracked lips and the short, short hair, bristly and mean, and her half open eyes staring through him. He had held a cup of water with a straw. He had put the straw in her mouth but she wouldn't clamp down onto it. He knew she needed water. He had to keep the fever down. He had screamed at her, "drink, drink, goddamnit!" but her eyes hadn't even fluttered. She couldn't hear. She couldn't drink. It was Easter Sunday and the smell of fresh flowers and warm earth was in the air."

And then...where could I go from there? Though I wrestle with trying to bring to print the… the what? You see, even here, I can't describe what it was she went through. I'm still too close, the range of emotion is too wide, and the underlying "meaning", if there ever was one, is still obscured by an impenetrable barrier of disintegrating flesh. Life is more dear to me than ever but that thought alone isn't enough to send me into paroxysms of inspiration. So I sit here, frustrated, having to approach by oblique metaphor an experience I'd rather tackle head on, then pick it up off the ground, shake out its meaning and stare at it until it lowers its eyes and submits.

Harriet Doerr wrote about death as if she were a stone that could speak. I don't see any other way it can be done. Death silences its victims and numbs its survivors, leaving around the body an anesthetizing haze and a vacuum that leaves all breathless. Her matter-of-fact tone was so right. When death looms we talk about it in everday language, as though we're planning a vacation or a trip to the store. And everyone knows how absurd it sounds. Jackie’s statement, “I want to go home to die," is so taut, the underlying psychology so confused and brokenhearted, the true meaning so beyond comprehension, that it's almost imbecilic to think that those seven short words could even begin to convey what it really means. But, of course, words are our only tools for expression, however inappropriate or inadequate they may be. Maybe if telepathy were possible and our emotions could flow between us like tides, unsullied by the mechanics of language, we wouldn't cry anymore frustrated by our inability to show truly how much we love someone. Maybe that's not so good.

We are doing well in Wolftown. As I told you before, every time I look at the pineapples in the foyer I think of you. That's a lot of thinking. I reckon we'll have to wait and see about the launch. We're planning on going down there anyway to go sailing with Bob. Since you'll probably hear something before we will, please let us know. Corey is doing very well. We still chuckle thinking about her experience with Santa, her unabashed joy, and her question, "How did he know?!"