fountains

Dear Joy,

Suffice to say I never found the fountain of youth. I believe you began to suspect as much at your white coat ceremony two years ago – when you held my hand and felt that it was cold in that sweltering Galveston day. You’re a trooper for handling that weather. I don’t think I could ever do it. Back then, I still hadn’t told anyone. But you held my hand and looked at me like I was your grandmother’s fine china. It’ll be yours one day, that china – selfishly, I hope that day is sooner than later, though I suppose time will no longer concern me as much then as it will you. I guess I can wait. So I hope for your sake it is a long time before you set your own Easter table with those blue-ivy cups and plates and ridiculous gravy-boat. Your grandmother loves it. Remember her, and your grandfather, when you make the table. I am so sorry we never made it down to see you again. I thought I’d box myself up and have Loretta slap a “Fragile: THIS SIDE UP” sticker on me, ship me right down to you. She didn’t go in for that though. I don’t suppose you found any fountains on the Gulf?

You must have been four or so when you brought me that treasure map, because your chin barely reached my knee. You told me you had “procured it from pirates” (lisping over the r’s – a more precious child you would not find, and I’m not just saying that). The yellow crayon sun in the compass rose is smiling at me now from the map’s frame over my desk, smiling from the beginning, like it knew the joke even then. I have gone through valleys in my life where I see nothing but cynicism in that smile, and I have gone over mountaintops where I see the pure joy of adventure. Oriented right, you told me, that sun’s arrows would help us find the fountain of youth. All we had to do was follow the map. Your joy (you always lived up to your name) was so easy to follow.

You had such a spark then. Where has it gone? Joy, my dear, unlike the inch-men and the bodies you dissect, you are greater than the sum of your parts. I won’t lie to you. My own spark is now so feeble I fear every sneeze will snuff it out. And I have never been friends with the dark. To not see my hand in front of my face, to feel undone in that way, unraveled, always sets me in a panic. We went to Carlsbad caverns once and they turned off the lights and I thought I was having a heart attack. I groped around my pockets for a cigarette and my lighter, panicking, until your grandmother found my hand and held it tight.

I never told you I used to smoke when I got real anxious. It helped to have a fire in my mouth. Made the one in my chest seem stronger. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you that when I started writing this. But I had to quit when you were born. I looked in your eyes and knew I wanted my candle to burn forever. And then you brought me that map, almost like you knew. We were not meant for this world of long goodbyes. I feel more than ever that it isn’t right. We messed it up, my dear. Somewhere – everywhere. But we got it right sometimes, too, like when Loretta and I had your mother, and when your mother and Jake had you. We got it right then. I wish to God I could have seen you again before things got bad. I so wish it.

I am sorry also for the blue smudge on these pages. Your grandmother’s just brought her blueberry scones out of the oven, and you know I am a sucker for them. For anything she makes, truly. She bakes a lot more often now, and whatever she bakes, it goes quick. Trays barely on the counter before they’re in the belly of whoever dropped by that day. But the smell lingers in the house and haunts you so you can remember how good they were. I read years ago that smell is our sense with the strongest connection to memory. I can’t smell so well, like I used to, but those scones always do trigger the right sorts of memories. So does the smell of Loretta’s hair – always lilies, ever since the day we met and she had a white bloom braided behind her ear. I don’t remember now why she had it. She was always fresh like spring, still is, though I’m an old and wintry bear.

Listen to me ramble. Even on ink. But please, bear with me, for I am a wintry old bear after all. These words were not my intention but perhaps are happy accidents. I want you to know some things. It’s funny – these pages, in this little black book, are the epilogue to my life, but the prologue to yours. You have so much to see. Your spark: remember it, my dear Joy. Life happens not in rooms of cadavers. Do you know that proverb, bad company corrupts good character? I think Saint Paul would agree with me that dead company corrupts the living. Sucks the life right out of you.

I say this as gently as I can: don’t live like the dead, Joy. I may be dying, but at least I lived. If my executor does this right (and I know he will – say hello to good old George for me, will you, if he’s still there when you read this), the journal in which I’m writing this note will be delivered with a manila envelope. Most of what’s in the envelope is legalese, and you’re smart so I know you’ll understand it, but the short version is this: I am leaving you with $20,000. I wish it could be more, but our insurance has not been as generous as one would hope. It is enough, though, I think, to do this thing for me. First: don’t spend it on your loans. You will repay those when you’re successful, as I know you will be. This money has a higher purpose. I am asking you to live with it. Divided between the remaining five years in your residency, it is $4,000 per year. So I want you to withdraw that $4,000 every year and go on an adventure. Follow treasure maps. Get out of the labs and libraries. Your grandmother and I once saw Vivaldi’s Four Seasons performed by a string quartet in a chapel in Venice, and to this day I cry when I hear “Spring.”

Make yourself memories like that, to hold on to when it gets dark. Write about them in this journal. Take a friend, if you can – life is far more vibrant with company. I know nothing of Eat Pray Love save the title, and that only from when you read it during your visit junior year. But it has stuck with me. I think she’s on to something with those three words. And please let me clarify: Loretta is the light of my life, making all things brighter; but do not make the mistake like so many of confining love to marriage. You want to finish school before you settle down, and I understand that. But love is all around if you slow down for it. The purest love, some philosophers have said, is friendship. And your grandmother may read this so let me also say, she is my greatest friend. One needs other friends, too.

Night is falling outside, and Loretta wants us to sit on the porch and enjoy the twilight. She likes the cricket music. I like her. I said it a little wrong earlier. She is not a light, but a mirror. I can see a little better the other side now. She helps me see it. I am tempted to tell you many other things, my learned secrets, before the bell tolls; but no, you must find them yourself, I think. That’s the way of life and the purpose of the blank pages that follow. Fill them with your discoveries. One day, we’ll compare notes. I hope that day is far off. I can wait.

I don’t have to say it because you know it, but I want to say it so you know it forever: I love you, my dear Joy.

I’ll see you at the fountain, the one Loretta sings is deep and wide.

Always,

Grandpa Joseph