Impressions and Portraits

Last month, Jim and I attended the annual barbeque at DBSA-Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance).

As we sat eating (my) hot dog and (Jim’s) hamburger, we watched the open mike karaoke in the front of the cafeteria. The young husband of a friend of ours went up to sing to his wife. As I glanced up at the makeshift stage, I had the distinct impression that David was standing there. Not in a miraculous way; I know full-well that David is dead. But the impression of his presence was strong. I mentioned it to Jim. I don’t think he felt it as powerfully as I did, but he saw the striking resemblance as well.

I was greatly comforted, looking upon this young man with his short haircut and lanky physique. It was as if David were in the room, untouchable, unreachable, but present as a living being.

In the prologue of my mother's memoir, she quotes Elizabeth Bennett, speaking to Mr. Darcy, "Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure." This memory gives me pleasure.

David’s birth year is receding into the past. The photo we have in our kitchen: our rogues’ gallery (as my mother called her lineup of photos of her children) is getting dated. And I will be able to update the other photos. But for David no updates are possible.

When I was a young girl, the local newspaper ran little boxes of photos on the obituary page. They were remembrances of family members, with captions like, ‘We miss you!’ and ‘your loving parents’. The hair styles and clothes were dated: these weren’t pictures of living daughters. These were long-dead daughters, oddly memorialized in the newspaper.

The photos and captions gave me an uneasy, queasy feeling. And now I feel uneasy as I realize my young guests will perceive David’s picture that same way, as my other children’s pictures are replaced with photos of aging adults. David’s will remain the portrait of a young man.