The process

Grieving is a process that involves and invokes memories.

Thanks to the volubility of my deeply missed beloved, I have lots of memories, even from his childhood.

Burt told me many stories. I learned of the running board on  his grandfather’s truck; the grandfather with whom he planted cucumbers. I heard how he met his childhood best friend while they tried to build a toy airplane in school. His mother sent a note back to their teacher who had said they were fighting in class. No. Burton and Paul are best friends, his mother said.

I heard of his teenage loves and crushes; of later indiscretions; all told with maximum humor and with ease. I got glimpses of his family life; through Burt’s tales, I was introduced to his co-workers, many of whom I eventually met in person. He laid out his past in the reminisces he shared; even after Lewy was with us, Burt recalled Brooklyn, summers in the Catskills, married life in Spring Valley, commutes to Wall Street.

His stories brought me into the scope of each of his decades, included me in his life.

We did things. [Yes, sensual things too like the embrace that caused a driver in a passing car to shout Get a room.] More ordinary things for middle-aged people that included walks to the pier by the apartment on 11th Avenue at 43rd Street. We were pleasantly surprised by a tug boat fair. Apparently an annual event, tug boats, those mysterious and colorful guardians that ferried larger boats, barges and ships into river waters, parade in the waters and around the docks in a festive display. It was fun. We had fun.

We always had fun. And we were middle-aged by the time we met and married. Evidently, we were also playful spectators.

Hockey games, something I never took a shine to, were fun because Burt knew the game and loved teaching me. I came to realize that if there had been no high sticking, the audience would have been so disappointed. We agreed that keeping an eye on the puck was a challenge. We stuck to baseball, a game he had taught me to love, and transitioned our fandom from men’s to women’s basketball.

New York sports is often accompanied by the cry for next year and Burt was a Mets fan. We dragged my father to a triple A game in Pittafield once. Another time, we were chastised for being late for dinner after a visit to the Pittsfield Mets. While in the Berkshires, Burt tried teaching me to drive a stick shift, our rental car that weekend. Another game I never learned.

We liked arenas of various sorts. The Boston Symphony plays outdoors in its summer in the Berkshires; very Greek I think.

Lincoln Center is a grand space to be in and we loved going to each of the great theaters around the plaza. The spectacle of the lights rising at the Metropolitan Opera House always got us.

We always had fun.