Connections

I recently took a work trip to Washington D.C. and went to visit my sister by taking the Amtrak through the Northeast corridor. This means passing through Baltimore, Philadelphia, Newark, New York City, and so on. All these significant cities hours within each others reach. There is something different about the East Coast, not only that fall strikes tree leaves so powerfully with such vivid and solid colors, but the buildings are more often made of brick or the houses are Victorian in design. Long trips sitting still can be monotonous, but something I value. It is a way for me to force myself to be still and reflexive. I know this means that I'll think too much, think about things that shouldn't matter, like people that I used to know, but thinking too much is restorative for me because I like to use thinking to craft meaning out of my circumstances. 

My sister lent me a novel to read The Hungry Tide by Amitav Gosh. It was one of those few times that I stayed up until 2 am reading. Two of the principle characters could not communicate with one another via language, but they did communicate anyway. And one of these two was illiterate, but the author actually made this seem as if it were his strength because he was so much more observant, quicker, and instinctual. Something about his silence reminded me of my own upbringing and by extension the culture that I came from and how many things are left unspoken, especially in terms of feelings and sharing. And this reminded me that it is not wrong that I or my family are not overly communicative.

There were a few beautiful scenes in the book that I had to revisit after reading it. Some of the backstory is a son's loss of his mother. He is asked if he remembers her and he responds: "How could I forget her? Her face is everywhere." Around the time that I turned 30, I heard a news story about the children of Holocaust survivors and how it seemed that they hadn't moved on or grown up when they should have. This meant that they seemed to refer to themselves and their identities in terms of their parents instead of their spouses or through having their own children, families that they had made and not inherited. When I heard that I wondered if my being single, and still relating myself to the personalities of my parents meant that I had not grown up. 

I was at lunch with my sister and it was a warm day in Connecticut. I only see my sister once or twice a year. She has lived far away from me ever since she went away to college except for perhaps one summer when she had come back. We were talking about trips and she and my other sister have traveled very much of the world compared to me. She was telling me about her trip to Puerto Rico and she was describing that there was a place that you could go in clear glass-like kayaks and paddle through bio luminescent water, where the water would light up around you. I imagined what it must have looked like. I imagined that it must have been night and electric lights filled the water. 

"I don't know if you've felt this when you traveled, " she started to say, and paused. I listened, thinking that it was an honor for her to consider me a traveler, having traveled very little compared to her. "...but it was one of those places where I wish Dad and Mom could have been there," she said. I don't think I even said anything in that moment (except to nod in agreement or acknowledgment), but I was surprised that we could relate so: I knew exactly what she was talking about. Whether living in D.C. or Mexico City or even on a hike that I had been on in Angeles Forest. I had registered in my head places that reminded me of them and that I wanted to take them to if they were to visit. It bewildered me that my sister, who I rarely saw, could be wired so similarly as me, unless it is not uncommon for adults to be reminded of their parents so strongly when they travel. 

That night around 2:00 am the novel I was reading had a scene where characters witnessed phosphorescent light coming in the water: 

"In the dying light the island seemed to be drifting peacefully to sleep. But just as Piya was stepping up to the bow, the dark blur was lit up by tiny points of phosphorescence. The illumination lasted only an instant and then the island went dark again. But a moment later the lights twinkled once more, in perfect synchrony: there were thousands, possibly millions, of glowing pinpricks of light, just bright enough to be seen across the water. As her eyes grew used the rhythm of the flashing, she was able to make out the sinuous shapes of roots and branches, all outlined by the minuscule gleams."  

I was stunned for some reason by the novel and by that shared connection I felt with my sister at lunch when she said that. I may have also been sad that she and her husband live so far away from my parents. I started to cry and was startled by my own unexpected tears.

In the morning, I woke up and just told my sister that I had been up late reading. I narrated to her what parts of the book I had read. She said it had been a few years since she had read it, so she didn't remember much of what it was about except that it was good.