Basket

The quality of mercy, and everything else, is always strained these days. Strain is everywhere. While I seem to be nowhere.

The days begin with that I-don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed feeling. There is an oppressive hand of sadness pushing me back into the sheets, back into the past. And my patience is strained. Which explains why huge piles of mail are building up on every available surface. The small table by the front door, once a repository for incoming and largely unwanted magazines, now resembles a United States Post Office substation. If I rolled in the door one day and found someone inside sorting letters and offering to sell me stamps, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

When the piles get too high, I have a go at reading the stuff. Naturally, official communiqués get priority. But there is a sneakiness about the post, and if one doesn't stay in shape, keep alert to the wiles and guises of direct-mail marketing, one can fall into any number of snares. United Airlines seems to want me to know that my unused frequent flyer miles may expire. But this proves to be an illusion. Ripping open the envelope, naturally a big mistake, reveals an offer to convert my airline miles into magazine subscriptions. This is positively laughable. I barely read The New Yorker, which I actually enjoy....

Another letter informs me that I will be the proud recipient of a Jewish Family Services Hanukkah basket. I got another basket from the same outfit at Rosh Hashanah. And the whole process was so mutually embarrassing, I would have thought, that long ago my name would have been stricken from the basket list. But no. I am officially one of the basket cases. Doubtless have a basket case worker. And there is no getting off the list. The Hanukkah basket is on its way. Let me point out that the Rosh Hashanah basket contained such New Year's treats as a plastic jar of peanut butter. I cringe at the thought of another delivery to my doorstep. I would even ring up the charity and beg them to stop. But on what grounds? Take me off your list, because.... I am not, what? Impoverished. Unfortunate. Bedridden. Isolated. Except that I can find nothing in the Jewish Family Services letter that suggests I am any of these things. In fact, there were not even be a problem regarding the Hanukkah basket, if it wasn't for the simple fact that I am frequently not at home. A volunteer delivers these things. The volunteer not only delivers them, but comes in for a chat. A visit, in the parlance of Hanukkah basket delivery. And this I dread more than anything. For what could transpire during the Jewish Family Services Hanukkah Basket Delivery Home Visit that would not be excruciating?

Even worse, what if it isn't excruciating? What if some young, vital Silicon Valley professional type bounds to my front door, basket in hand, comes in for a chat and sits on my sofa talking up a condescending storm? 'Have you been getting out?' might be one general topic that could arise. Do you have enough of...peanut butter or any other life-giving substance on hand? Ah, couldn't help noticing that you don't seem to have a hand on hand. Awkward during the holidays, isn't it? Well, we at Jewish Family Services just wanted to drop off a little something. And here it is. A little something. A small sliver of the big everything. Enjoy.

With age comes the general sense that life has passed us by. And with grief? Actually, it's rather the opposite. Life has run over us. Hit and run. Less a sense of being forgotten than being targeted. Marked. Handed the keys to a van full of packages and told to deliver them. Or worse, told to stay home and have them delivered. Either way, too much freight.

It is as though the short days pinch the last year into perspective. Marlou departing bewildered on her final trip. Me waiting bewildered for her final return. Both of us deliberately not knowing the horrifying end.