During my childhood in upstate New York, it wasn't uncommon to have a light snow before Halloween. Whether there had been snow in October or not, November was reliably cold and wet. Rain-splattered sidewalks were slippery with leaves adhered to them. Walking back and forth to school, I stopped to enjoy those places where the sidewalk preserved the delicate, brown outline of a November leaf that had once been pressed to its surface.
I was admiring the beautiful work of a quilter the other day. Her piece I commenting on covered the large altar of her church. My eye especially noticed the background material she had chosen. She laughed and said she found it on a remnant table, and like all good polyester it didn't have a memory. That was her artful way of saying it didn't wrinkle like cotton, telling the stories of where it had been and requiring ironing.
Her poetic remark about polyester's absence of memory intrigued me especially since we were talking on November 2, historically celebrated in many Christian churches as All Souls' Day, a day to remember and be mindful of the dead. A lack of memory or wrinkles is convenient in fabric. It allows us to stay firmly anchored in the present, not lurking in times past. Remembering those we have loved and lost to death can wrinkle our hearts with pain. It can also release unbridled gratitude for all that person or persons gave that continues to shape us. My friend Benson died twenty five years ago yesterday, one of thousands of young gay men whose lives ended prematurely in the AIDS epidemic. His humor, generous spirit, impeccable eye, and artistry are still imprinted, a fine brown outline, on the sidewalk of my soul. Who do you remember in these November days?
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