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I walk every morning—no matter the weather. I've done this for the past 30 years. In the last seven, I've been joined by a sweet companion, Smush, a seven-pound Brussels Griffon.
I'm out of bed by 5 AM. Smush soon follows me into the living room and kitchen. I close the bedroom door, so Alan isn't awakened. I boil hot water for my tea, measuring one teaspoon of Chinese green tea. While steeping, I stretch. Sipping my tea on the couch, I listen to BBC or some newsy podcast like “On the Media” or “Inside Story.” Between 5:30 and 6, we're out the door.
Lately, I don't use a leash. Over the years, I've learned to trust Smush in the early morning. The sidewalks and streets of my Upper West Side New York neighborhood are quiet and emptied of people and vehicles. Quickly, we arrive at Riverside Park. After I'm cremated (I'm 72), I want my ashes dispersed in the park. Ditto for Smush (7). These days, even before Covid, my thoughts often turn to endings.
My mother died when I was seven or maybe eight. After two long-term analyses, I have just one memory: her vomiting in the bedroom toilet. I watched but don't recall saying a word to her or anyone else.
Sadly, I grew up and still feel that I've never had a mother. She's not, and has never been, a felt-presence in my inner life, at least in ways that I'm aware of. Looking at her photos, she's so full of life. Her sister and brother described her as vivacious and much in love with my dad and her two sons. Still, she was and is a stranger to me.
In the immediate aftermath of her death, I thought, “Now I'm free.” I never privately grieved. Dad, Michael, and I never talked about her. It was like she never existed. I've lived with a vague sense of an absence that, at times, has felt as if I'm bearing a heavy weight.
After she died, my father was a faint presence. Whether he was alive to me before, I don't know. No memories. He had an inviting way—soft spoken, smiley, a warm persona. He drew you into his life but only to orbit around the