The Prisoner's Song

My grandma was the most sophisticated hillbilly I've known.

When we first found out she was dying—although none of us could quite beleive it at the time—all she wanted to do on the phone with me was sing. I mean, we did that often to begin with, but we started and ended every phone conversation with a song that spring. I would sit on my stoop on East 99th Street, and yodel Weary Blues from Waitin and
Honky Tonk Angels into the phone. She would sing along, laugh and prompt me on all the lyrics I forgot.

Side note: I lived in East Harlem. All of my envelopes from Grandma always came with the words "upper east side" carefully written under the correct address; and her traditional Hi and scribble on the back flap.

One call, she asked me to sing her the song, the song from the play. Well, I'd done a lot of musicals, and I didn't quite know which one she was talking about.

She said, you know,

Oh, I wish I had someone to love me,
Someone to call me their own.
Oh, I wish I had someone to live with
'Cause I'm tired of livin' alone.

It sounded familiar—familiar enough that I could half sing along. But I didn't remember it. When we got off the phone, II went online to look it up.

When I was in college, I did some sort of costume assist on the play Orphans. I liked the play, but in truth, hadn't thought of it much.

They sing the last stanza from “The Prisoner's Song” over and over—that's a 1920s country ballad. I'd forgotten all about it.

Every phone call, every visit that last year, all she wanted to sing was The Prisoner's Song. Always the first few verses best. We'd start every call with it—we'd move from song to song—and we'd end up there too.

Her favorite verse was:

Oh, please meet me tonight in the moonlight,
Please meet me tonight all alone,
For I have a sad story to tell you,
It's a story that's never been told.

My grandma had always been a singer. My grandpa fell in love with her at a dance, seeing her on stage, singing Thinking tonight of my blue eyes. I hear old country songs and realize I know the words—that's grandma.

I wanted to be an actor; I loved performing, loved the very activity of being on stage. I love to read plays—anymore, I'd rather curl up with my portable Arthur Miller or some Congreve than a novel. But I was a failure at the business side of acting. And I'm not so brilliant that I could overcome that failing. Also, I like health insurance. A lot. You really appreciate it if you've lived without it for 6 or 7 years.

Realizing I would never achieve my dream of making a living as an actor (not being rich and famous, I had little interest in that) was one of the hardest things I had to swallow in my life.

But I knew Grandma understood.

"Grandma, what do you do when you can't do the one thing in life you love more than anything else?"
"You move on. You find other things."
"But it's not the same, is it?"
"No, it's not the same."

And somehow, miraculously, it was easier to bear.

I'll be carried to the new jail tomorrow,
Leaving my poor darling alone,
With the cold prison bars all around me
And my head on a pillow of stone.

When we heard Grandma had a brain tumor—less than a year to live—we figured they had to be wrong. This was Grandma! She was... well, a bit unstoppable.

At grandma's funeral, one of my mother's cousins told a story about dancing with my Grandma at a wedding. How she thought she'd dance a bit with Grandma until she tired out. Four hours later, Grandma was still dancing.

The headaches could stop her though. She became a different person. Grandpa would lean over, hold the back of her neck, and touch his forehead to where it hurt. To where the tumor was. Until the pain—and the person who was notGrandma, but was—subsided. She said it was the only thing that helped.

Her last words, morphine-hazy, were, "All these beautiful people."

Now I have a grand ship on the ocean,
All mounted with silver and gold,
And before my poor darlin' would suffer,
Oh, that ship would be anchored and sold.

I knew the prognosis was bad. But this was Grandma! Part of me knew they were right; part of me felt that if there was a 5% chance of survival, she'd be in that 5%. Her mother lived well into her 90s; grandma was only 79 years old.

"I know it sounds bad," I told my mother, "but part of me thinks we'll
be talking about this scare with her five years from now."

Grandma and Grandpa had been planning their 60th wedding anniversary. They were looking forward to the dancing. One of the hardest things for Grandpa, he said, afterwards, was buying his own clothes. She'd done it for him for almost 60 years.

I expected something when she died. I held her hand. I knew she was going. The machines. My grandpa sobbing. Her breathing slowed, more and more, until it stopped.

I wanted to sing good bye, but my voice was nothing but a squeaking breath.

My grandma and I sang to each other all that last year. But she never used to sing the last verse, which was the one I knew from the play. The one that comes to me, at strange times, driving alone, the odd moments I miss her most.

If I had the wings of an angel
over these prison walls I would fly
Straight to the arms of my baby
And there I'd be willin to die.

Cold, Cold Heart

I'm happy to be in the office.

I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day today. Alex and I started talking about it once we got out of the car, because I don't think either of us remembered until then.

I've never liked Valentine's Day. I think I did when I was really young—we had a Valentine's Day party when I was four, and I swear I still remember it as one of the best parties I ever had. I asked my mother for another one for years. But generally, Valentine's Day was yet another occasion for me to be snubbed by my peers.

A story: I got flowers once. I think about the story every Valentine's Day.

I was 17, in an on-again, off-again relationship. I didn't know, but he was the only person I ever dated that my sister also liked.

He sent me a dozen roses. They showed up the day after Valentine's Day. I was stunned.

So was my sister--I think she was devastated. My sister is cranky, but she's not overly emotional. But she stormed out of the house sobbing. I didn't know what to do. She didn't want to ruin a nice thing for me, but I was hurt that she was hurt. I'd never seen her that upset.

They'd promised him that they'd show up on Valentine's Day. No guarantee they'd be red, the people said. So he got them for free. I don't think I'd even called him on the day. When I got the flowers, I called. I told him he must have thought me ungrateful. He said nah... thought you were busy. How could I be too busy to call and thank you for flowers? I asked.

I've never gotten flowers for Valentine's Day since. I've requested otherwise--please don't get me flowers, I don't want them.

There's a female status thing about getting flowers on valentine's day. There is a sense of winning I suppose. So part of me yes, wants flowers. But I guess I just always was aware of the price. Part of me still associates the day with hurting my sister. My sister is the person I respect most in this world--I am often in awe of her strength and kindness. To me, that kind of winning isn't worth it.

Another story: My ex Javier--now a good friend--and I agreed not to do anything for Valentine's Day one year. All his coworkers were women. They asked him:
--What are you doing for Valentine's Day?
--Nothing. Kyrce said she doesn't want anything.
This was correct. I had told him this. We lived too far from a White Castle to enact our fantasy of getting a linen tablecloth, silverware and a bud vase, taking it to a there, and having a romantic dinner of mini cheeseburgers (we talked about this every year for hours on end....)

His coworkers went ballistic:
--What do you mean, she doesn't want anything? Don't you know when she says she doesn't want anything, she doesn't mean it?

This was incorrect. However, they insisted on driving him to Wal Mart, and he desperately fumbled for something, anything!

I think he may possibly have gotten me candles and deodorant. They were offended by the deodorant. I was happy: we were poor, and I was almost out.

He told me later that Wal Mart on Valentine's Day was like the day before Christmas... except all the shoppers were men, with glazed, panicked, hunted looks. When he got home, I was touched but a bit put out. I hadn't gotten him anything. Wasn't that the agreement. He told me the story, and we had a good laugh about it.

Afterward, he turned to me and said:
--You really would have been happy with nothing, wouldn't you?
--Yes. Yes, I would. But I appreciate that you got something.
He nodded.
--Thought so. But they wouldn't believe me.
We decided the story was worth it.

My most recent boyfriend dumped me Sunday night--Sunday before Valentine's Day--at 10:45ish, no less, when all my support people were asleep. Of course, he's so dense that the same day he also posted on his facebook that he was trying to "practice random acts of small kindness" as to what he was doing. Must be real small. That made me laugh.

I'd be angrier--I was angrier, that night, got to call him lots of choice, deserved, names--if I weren't so relieved. Once I got past my feelings of foolishness for believing his lies--if they were lies, most likely yes, but honestly I think he's so confused I wouldn't be surprised if even he didn't know--I just felt sorry for him. And a sense that I'd escaped something awful.

Another story: Everyone knows my favorite color is green. It's pathetically obvious. When we first started dating, he told me his favorite color was green too. About a month later, we had this conversation:
--At work, we were talking about our favorite colors. And people said pink is a girly color.
--Yeah, that's one of the reasons it annoys me. The whole Barbie thing.
--I told them pink was my favorite color. I like women... women like pink... I like pink.
--Makes sense. But I thought green was your favorite color.
--Oh I like green a lot.
--But your favorite color is pink.
--Yes. And black. Pink and black.
--Oh. Okay.
In truth, I never saw that much evidence that he liked green at all, but meh. I mean, who cares if you have the same favorite color, really? I don't. But it always bothered me. And when I found out it was all just... lies, him "trying to make things work" by trying to tell me what he thought I wanted to hear, well, stuff like that finally made sense.

And I'm relieved.

Relieved I'm not in relationship constructed on what I want to hear, not any reality.
Relieved I didn't spend more time than I did on the fantasy.
Relieved to be able to move on to something more real.
Relieved to have one more Valentine's Day
Single
Where I don't have to
Worry about
Flowers.