From a wonderful email Jessica just wrote:
Falling in love. How painful and sweet and all consuming it is. How it clouds your vision and makes all other things seem brighter yet less important at the same time. I remember running around New York after you had gone to RIT after the summer and feeling more ON, more alive and capable – like able to learn and memorize a whole movement of Elgar in one week – but at the same time less interested in practicing. I had to do everything faster and more efficiently so I could get back to Being in Love.
|Us in New York City the summer they met.|
My mother was so sentimental in her choices of music, literature and films (Gone with the Wind? Vaughan Williams? To Kill a Mockingbird?) but so averse to overt expressions of sentiment in her day to day life, half-smiling while she half-hugged me off to college.
A little like Sherlock Holmes. He is analytical, intellectual and sees emotions as the “the fly in the ointment” yet he is accomplished violinist and enjoys the opera and once rushed Watson off the ground to a chair fearing he might be shot, crying “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!” He had rare outbursts that showed his deep humanity. My mom, like my favorite fictional character, was FULL of emotion and feeling and love yet favored a measured expression of it all. I rarely saw her brake face. But you could see it all over what she chose to read, listen to and watch. Not as a measured as Holmes, granted, but measured nonetheless.
Brings me to tears just writing that shit.
Off to the store to get some chicken boobs for dinner.