Eight years ago today my mother died; nothing predicted it. Although we
never learned the deciding cause (off with causality, off with dogma), it was a
defining day that I’ve mostly come to terms with.
The day-marker is like
an anniversary; it imposes a peculiar singularity of feeling (a lonely annuity): very few remember the deathdays of ordinary people (even D. and Ph. might not have felt the date had I not brought it up, and Ph. was there). This is not to say, by any means, that my mother was merely ordinary; instead, I like to think of
life–perhaps all lives–as small-world extraordinary. The day-marker of
death, in its singularity, fails to evoke a broad co-memory; it sparks only a
local co-memory, reaching as far as the family. And so this is most
certainly the echo of a moment felt by my brother and dad, felt by mom’s
siblings. Perhaps a few, close others.
I don’t have a whole lot more to say, and I definitely don’t have the impulse
to over-intellectualize the almost. Barthes, in Camera Lucida,
writes about the almost–the paradoxical nearness/distance that confronts
him in a collection of photographs of his deceased mother. I don’t have
many photos of my mother, especially from the years immediately before she died.
But the few I do possess lend an astounding credibility and accuracy to the
experience Barthes describes. Without understanding it in his terms, I was
sensing the incompleteness of the image, as I still do, over and over.
According to these photographs, sometimes I recognized a region of her
face, a certain relation of nose and forehead, the movement of her arms, her
hands. I never recognized her except in fragments, which is to say that
I missed her being, and that therefore I missed her altogether.
It was not she, and yet it was no one else. I would have recognized her
among thousands of other women, yet I did not "find" her. I recognized
her differently, not essentially. Photography thereby compelled me to perform
a painful labor; straining toward the essence of her identity, I was
struggling among images partially true, and therefore totally false. To
say, confronted with a certain photograph, "That’s almost the way she was!"
was more distressing than to say, confronted with another, "That’s not the way
she was at all." The almost: love’s dreadful regime, but also the
dream’s disappointing status–which is why I hate dreams. For I often
dream about her (I dream only about her), but it is never quite my mother:
sometimes, in the dream, there is something misplaced, something excessive:
for example, something playful or casual–which she never was; or again I
know it is she, but I do not see her features (but we do see,
in dreams, or do we know?): I dream about her, I do not dream her.
And confronted with the photograph, as in the dream, it is the same effort,
the same Sisyphean labor: to reascend, straining toward the essence, to climb
back down without ever having seen it, and to begin all over again. (65-66)