I Like

I like things in clear, discrete pieces in clean patterns. I like that the rooms of my house are containers of functions: one for sitting, one for sleeping, one for making meals, one for eating them. When I eat out, I like distinct food in their own plates: appetizers, sushis, tapas; or else served in sections, like smörgåsbords, buffets, hors d’oeuvres. I like keeping the food items I put on my plate separate; I do not like it when the sauce of one leaches to the others. If only all restaurants provided compartmented plates, I would really like that.

 

I like my day broken into to-do lists, my work into tasks. My boss likes this in me, though I do not like him. I do not like that he is a disorganized, creative type who keeps coming up with ideas, most of them stupid, but a few of which, unfortunately, are brilliant. I do not like visionaries for the changes their innovations keep inflicting on the world, though I accept that his is an essential gift. I do like that my gift is the ability to see which of his ideas are workable and can be made real. I like that I am the one to chart the thousands of steps it takes to transform these ideas into tangible products we can bring to market. I do not care much for the products themselves.

 

I do not like coming to work and walking through the company’s central open space, with all my slovenly co-workers fluttering about and chittering, though I do like making it to my soundproofed office, with its neat desk and simple workstation. I like going deep into my flowcharts and spreadsheets and calendaring software. I do not like making or getting phone calls, since conversations always run the risk of turning in unexpected directions. I prefer IMs, emails, and texts, the more concise the better.

 

But I did not like the text I received this morning, though it was just four words: Come home, she’s going. I liked that my boss immediately said get out of here, take all the time you need. I did not like it when my co-workers flocked to me with sympathetic chirps before I could make my escape, though I appreciated how they – even the new ones – knew better than to pat me on the back, or, God forbid, give me a hug.

 

I liked that everything I needed for the trip went quickly and fitted neatly into my black carry-on bag. I like that it took just six and a half minutes to book a flight online and a 20-second phone call to order a cab. I really disliked the stench of the cab. And I am really disliking sitting in this departure lounge interminably, with strangers rushing by me in an unceasing stream. I dislike transit points of all kinds: bus stations, train stations, building lobbies – but I dislike airports most of all as purveyors of the most rapid and far-ranging of transpositions.

 

I like to front-load my feelings, so as to be calm when facing events, so while I sit, I think back to when my mother called me to inform me of her diagnosis. I felt blank when she gave me the details: stage 4 mesothelioma, mitigation but no viable therapies, six months. But I liked that I had the means to pay for her home hospice care, since she, of course, had no insurance. I like that I was at least able to visit her a couple of times, and called her now and then despite my antipathy to phone calls. I did not like the discomfort of our conversations, especially when she described how her friends were trying to stave off the inevitable with Shamanic rituals, aura cleansings, and medicinal herbs – but I liked having made the calls anyway.

 

I do not like to think of my childhood with her, but I feel duty-bound to recollect it now in advance of her passing. I like that she raised me by herself after my father left, that she had been a strong woman who stood on her own and stood by me despite all the difficulties I posed. Nevertheless, I did not like growing up in her house, her bohemian ways, the way all her hippy-artsy-mystical friends came and went as they pleased. I disliked the Wiccan celebrations in our garden, the communal dinners of foraged or homegrown food, the ever-present miasma of incense. I disliked the men who drifted in and out of her bedroom. I disliked the snakes, lizards, gekkos, and chameleons of the reptile menagerie she kept in the barn. I disliked the makings and the detritus of her projects always strewn about: the canvases and paints, the yarn, the spools of thread for weavings, the discarded photographs, the candle wax, the metal junk for sculptures. I like that I moved out the first instant I could.

 

My blood runs cold when my phone chimes and a numbness comes over me as I listen to the voice that says I’m very sorry, she’s gone, it went much faster than anyone anticipated, at least now she’s free of the pain. I am aware that people around me are turning to me as I start rocking back and forth, but all I truly see is the grief welling up like water like a flood like darkness dissolving the compartments of my brain submerging me, I hate this I hate this I hate this, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

(October 2011)