Wailing Widow

9/19/23

I am a wailing widow. I wail and weep most days intermittently as I wander about the house. The wailing is sometimes short and soft. Sometimes it is a cry that forms the name Robin. The wailing comes out of me unexpectedly triggered by almost anything that reminds me that Robin is dead. This wailing is different than the wail I uttered the day that he died. It is not as loud or as desperate. It is more defeated and resigned sounding. It is fortunate that I spend most of my time with Piper, so that I have permission to wail throughout my day unencumbered by wondering if it’s inappropriate or not, for me to be wailing in front of another person. Although, from time to time, when I let out a really loud one, the neighbors dogs will start barking.

The neighbors have not yet complained to me that I am being loud, so I hope that they do not hear me. I feel bad for Piper, to bear the brunt of all my wailing. She takes it fairly well though. Sometimes, if I collapse on the floor mid wail, she comes up to try to comfort me. But usually she seems a bit confused by the noise, and goes to get a toy hoping that I will play with her. This wailing, it’s different than crying. Infact, I’ve never had any reason in my life to truly wail thus far. I’ve been fortunate, to be protected for so long from a pain so agonizing, that wailing is the natural response my body makes.

This weekend, when I went to New York City, I found myself desperately wanting to wail as I walked through the streets of Brooklyn to take the subway uptown to visit my Aunt and Uncle. My body ached holding in the wails. I felt it was unacceptable for me to let my body do what it needed to do in such a public place.

On a whim, I visited the MET before walking over to my Aunt and Uncles on 85th st. I haven’t cared at all about painting since Robin died. It’s been hard to care about it since he was diagnosed with cancer. Despite my lack of enthusiasm I’ve continued painting for the MFA program I’m in. I don’t mind making paintings and I actually still enjoy it most of the time. It’s a peaceful, straightforward task that helps me enter into a meditative place that feels like a mini flow state. I haven’t cared to talk about art either, or think about it really, so I had no intention of going to the MET, but I felt the impulse to go, so I went.

I had just a little over an hour to look around. I gravitated towards the Egyptian wing. When I decided to go, that was the place I held in my mind. I wanted to see artwork that memorialized the dead. I spent most of my time there, gazing at the adorned sarcophagi, sculptures, masks, and portrait paintings of the deceased. As I looked at the funerary portraits all I could think was, this, this, was somebody's Robin. The soft brown eyes of the young man could have been Robin’s gentle brown eyes. This is the thread that connects me to this ancient Egyptian sarcophagus. It is that they lived and died, that Robin lived and died, and that somebody wailed for them like I am now wailing for Robin.

Somehow, this thread that connects us comforts me. It offers me perspective on the micro and macro-isms of life. It says, this is how it goes. This happens to all of us. Everyone is going to lose their Robin, and in turn be lost. We are part of something bigger than us, something that is unexplainable. But I think this unexplainable-ness must be part of the same thing that makes the universe continuously expand.

I found myself profoundly touched by the sculptures as I pondered this thread, feeling the importance and purpose of art more acutely than I had in a while.

no visual agenda