My mother at the picnic table, at night
Follow the brush: Digression about a memory I've long been obsessed with
Spring twilights in New England are long, sweet, and chilly. No matter how green the grass is, it’s wise to wear a coat once it is dark outside. Even if all there is to do is sit in the night air outside the back door and watch the streetlights flicker on.
I spent the day looking for an envelope bearing my mother’s handwriting. The house is full of them, but this one should be thick, full of papers about powers of attorney and accounts maturing. My father wants me to find it because he needs to know some details from it, the kinds of details my mother was good at knowing. She took them with her when she went.
I keep finding photos of Mom instead. She’s not wearing her coat with the fur collar in them. I think of that coat a lot since she died, especially at twilight, when the breeze through the window develops a bite. When I was a boy, spring nights in Tennessee were usually warm and buzzing with gnats and dusty with moths, and as summer neared the fireflies would begin to rise. Coats were usually forgotten by April.
But I remember one cold night and my bare feet in the wet green grass, wandering outside to look for my mother. It was after dinner, and my father was away. She wasn’t by the Eastern Redbud next to the yard light near my bedroom window. She wasn’t inspecting the Dogwoods, their white buds ghostly above the fence line. She wasn’t looking for early hints of buds on her roses.
I ran around the side of the house, the darkest part of the yard, and into another pool of light from a bright lamp Dad had installed at the corner there. Mom sat in her black coat with silky fur lapels at the red picnic table. An empty wine glass was by her hand and she was far too still.
I ran to her, and she gathered me up and hugged me, my face against the soft fur. It smelled of Windsong perfume, Pond’s cold cream, Aquanet hairspray, and cigarettes. I knew that Mom was upset but had no idea why.
I asked her what she was doing out there, and she said, “Meditating.” She explained what that meant as best she could, but it took me years to understand. I never knew why she was out there that night, why her face was damp when it was so cool, and why she was so quiet as she held me.
My father told me things after Mom died that hinted at what bothered her so much that night. Still, as I sit here after sunset, almost 50 years later and a thousand miles away, an empty whiskey tumbler beside me and my cheeks dry as I meditate on memories that resonate with mystery and sadness, I don’t really know why my mother was crying that night.
Mom sometimes kept secrets to spare me. She never realized my mind is the most unsparing thing.
“Follow the brush” refers to zuihitsu, a classical Japanese literature genre consisting of loosely connected personal essays and fragmented thoughts. The term "zuihitsu" can be translated as "following the brush." Zuihitsu is characterized by its lack of a fixed structure or narrative. It may include reflections, observations, anecdotes, and musings on various subjects. I’ve long wondered why English-speaking writers haven’t experimented more with the zuihitsu, unlike other forms such as haiku. It’s an old form but feels uniquely well-suited to the world today.