I can’t see past the last century

by doreen peri

Posted to Stories on 2004-07-10 08:49:00

Do you want to hear about my ancestors or my blood? My grandparents or my sisters? The distance between an arc on a branch or a twig or the chance guess of who my in-laws might be?

I can’t see past the last century.

That’s better than someone who says, “I can’t see past me.” Maybe. Depending on whether he or she is tall enough to see beyond a parade.

Mine began remembering standing on the shoulders of a giant. I had to do it just to be able to see the marching men, the batons, the confetti, the ticket stubs, my grandmother quite happy to be there amid the chaos. It was she, after all, who claimed to have assembled the ensemble. I was a minor witness, small next to the invisible caviar tray. She served grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb with a lemon cinammon garnish. Sometimes she had three-cornered pies made with hand rolled dough. Uncle Dave loved her baklavah. He said he had to. Then he made his own recipe calling it a handed down. Who’s was better? Both.

My grandfather landed on the shores of Massachussetts sometime during the time he was alive and before he grew up. I think he was 12. He was born in Lebanon. The parade lady soon to be his spouse came from Greece. I’m sure that was easy enough to tell. He became a lawyer. Corporate. Don’t throw eggs. No drug trials or murders.

I loaned my lover the Greek scarf before he came here. I’d owned it for many years. He claimed to sense my scent on it.

We all paint and draw or write stuff down. My sister is a clown. She juggles wit with circumspect, inspects dialogue while opening up an aorta. My other sister is a doctor, well sorta like an artistic scientific genius or something like that while the other one is just about as spiritually sound as we all would like to be, minus the continuity. She’s the oldest. No wonder.

And then there’s Mom who has thunder in the very exhale of a breath, testing her platitudes, confirming her faith in human nature. She is a goddess plagued with miserable ghosts, She is the support who we lift up from tile, nothing broken.

Do you want to hear about my ancestors or my blood?

My blood has been reconciled. It is tarnished by virus. My blood weeps sweat. I bet I am not the only blood sister. I cannot see past the last century. I can’t. I chant futile mantras. No one who’s died reappears. What’s done is done is done is history and years to comprehend it can’t figure out why. How profound is that? Not very.

My father died in 1996. He was stricken by paralysis. Lou Gehrig gave him a kiss on the lips. I pushed him on a scooter, held firm to his forearm on a walker, watched him deteriorate. I fed him pills mixed with applesauce. He swallowed them whole like truth. He was a nuclear physicist. He rooted wisdom in doesn’t matter and must. He did both.

I can’t see past the last century.

Beyond that I have Sittee’s journal. One day I’ll type it up. I have nothing from Papa but a belief I was the favorite. The history tree is in the journal and the video. Sandra took film.

My mother is alone tonight. My daughter is out of the state.
I can’t see past the last century and do not know how to relate
the difference between ancestors and blood and how far back
to look. One day I may write a history book.