Beneath A Sycamore Tree

Yesterday a forty-eight year old man wandered the graveyard at Inglewood Cemetery, a bouquet of flowers hanging from one hand, a map of the plots in the other, unable to find his mother’s grave.  Back and forth he went, up and down the rows of markers, finding name after name, but not the name he was seeking. Already emotional at even being there, he stopped to take a deep breath. Wasn’t this how he’d spent most of his life with his mother: seeking and not finding? Yes. It was.

Out of nowhere came a soft, angelic voice. “Excuse me sir, do you need help?”

The man, startled a bit, looked up to see a young black girl in her early twenties, wearing a faded orange blouse, her prominent cheekbones set beneath dark eyes that were soft with concern. In her arms was a newborn baby, fast asleep, swaddled in a blanket. Clearing his throat, the man managed a reply, “I’m looking for my mother,” he said, “But I can’t find her. I have a map, but…”

She nodded politely. “Can I help?” And the man nodded back. “Sure.” 

The girl called over a girlfriend that was in a parked car nearby and the two of them went up and down the various rows, helping the man, looking for the same name he was. All to no avail. Sadness now began mixing with feelings of embarrassment and despair. Then, another voice called out to the man, this one in Spanish. “Which plot number are you looking for?” It was one of the groundskeepers, a look of pity on his face and a shovel in his hand. How does he know I speak Spanish, the man wondered. They talked. The man told the groundskeeper the number, and after a bit, at long last, the man was led with these three angels to the name he was looking for.

Then? Instantly, respectfully, they all left him alone. The man felt tired. He looked at the letters that made up half of his soul and dropped his head and cried, long and hard, the heavy kind of sobs that hurt your ribs when you try to hold them in. This had been a long time coming. Eleven months, sixteen days. But it was the right day, the day that would’ve been his mother’s 77^th birthday. The man placed the flowers; tulips, daisies, roses and his mother’s favorite, plumerias, on the headstone. Then he sat down and began to inventory his grief.

The man thought of all the hard times with his mother, all the moments of disconnect, misunderstanding, hurt and confusion. He plucked all the “why’s” out of the sky around his head and spread them out on the tall, cool grass before him, and was about to indulge in a garden of regrets, when, instead, he thought of the young girl and her baby. What a picture they were: a mother who had given life and was now continuing to give it, nursing that baby with coos and soft songs of sleep and peace. Hadn’t this been the man and his own mother once, forty eight years ago? Yes. It had. 

And that’s all that really mattered.

So, there beneath the wide spread arms of a sycamore tree, the man got on his knees and prayed. Then he knelt over and put his forehead to his mother’s tombstone and told her, one by one, every single thing that she’d done right in his life. He thanked her and told her how much he loved her, in soft, soft whispers. Like a lullaby. 

Then? He walked to his car and drove away.

Tail Lights

Last week I went back in time, to my high school days, when driving to the gym or work was a “hold your breath” moment every time I turned the key to my car’s ignition. My car's not new, but it’s not all that old either. But one morning I had a dead battery. Just like that. Either I had mistakenly left something on or the battery was due for a change. AAA jumped the car, I drove it to my mechanic and…wallah! No problem. Until three days later. Dead battery again, and another call to AAA, who jumped me again, ran a diagnostic on the alternator, pronounced it as fine and recommended I take it back to the mechanic. I did. Two days of expert detective work later and my mechanic was dumbfounded. Battery fine. Alternator fine. Starter fine. No shorts. Then he uttered the dreaded words no man wants to hear: “You’re.Gonna.Have.To.Take.It.To.The.Dealer”. Cue the Darth Vader music. 

Now….me? I barelllly got a C- in auto shop back in high school. But, still, all along, I’d been exasperating everyone with my complaining about the fact that one of my tail lights was out. Could that be the cause? The AAA tech, my mechanic, his junior mechanic…they all looked at me with that smile that all men share when one of them is ready to pull your Man Card for being a wussy and then give you a time out. It’s a look that says, “Silly man. You didn’t do very well in auto shop, did you?” Well. No. I was busy writing stories, dumb ass. How’d you do in English? Never mind. I can see that you misspelled three words on the invoice here, so let’s call it even. I didn’t really say that of course. I’m too kind. Okay. I didn’t really say it because I still wanted the car fixed. Otherwise,  I woulda been small enough to say it. I admit.

But when faced with the dealer as my next option? I wanted that tail light checked no matter how silly I sounded. Guess what we found? Not just a blown bulb, but an entirely melted fixture surrounding it. The junior mechanic gasped and said, “Damn! That could cause a short!” The senior mechanic glared at him. I shook my head at everyone and strutted around the car a few times like a rooster. Fixture and bulb changed. Problem solved. I had just dodged a $1,000 bill (because that’s where all dealers start, purveyors of human misery that they are) for $14. Since my children tell me that I’m the Italian Mr. Crabs, this made me weep with joy (when no one else was around of course).

But later I began to wonder: how many of our problems, mental, emotional, spiritual or otherwise…these massive, all-encompassing issues that weigh us down and beg for all sorts of human diagnostics (meds, therapists, etc.)…are really just “tail light” issues? Depressed a lot? How many times a week are you downing a glass of wine or a few beers (aka “depressants”)? Lost and disillusioned? How’s your prayer life going? Are you talking to God? Are you listening for the answers? Feeling unloved? Have you learned to love yourself? Because no one else can truly love you until you do. Instead they'll be loving the person they think you are, instead of the person you know yourself to be.

I’m not saying that some issues aren’t very, very serious. Some surely are.  But some just aren’t as complicated as we think. Sometimes it's just that a small light in you has gone out, and if you're insistent enough to check it out? You can shine bright again.