Killing Time

Azza flew back to Cairo a few days ago.  Her trip was an arduous one.  She went from Austin, Texas, to Atlanta, Georgia, and then on to Europe.  Her first stop in the Old World was Milan, Italy.  She then had a short flight to Rome and finally, nearly twenty-four hours after she began, she made the last leg into Egypt’s capital city.

We’ve been talking, daily, on Skype ever since her arrival, and I frequently take snapshots of her while we’re chatting.  This is one of my favorites. 

 

I’ve been reading as one way to keep myself busy during her absence.  Luckily, in my mother’s house, I’ve got a whole stash of books I’ve been meaning, for the past several years, to look at.  Many of them are memoirs, my favorite.  Two nights ago, I started one by Julian Barnes called Nothing to Be Frightened Of. 

In his memoir, Barnes writes about his thoughts on death and family and religion and refers to himself as an “agnostic.”  There’s a scene, early on, when he views his mother’s body, at the hospital, not long after her demise.  He admits that he went to see her there entirely out of curiosity, the sort that writers necessarily have.

The book makes me think about my own aging parents.  For years, my father has been talking about dying and his own coming END.  This, I think, is extremely healthy, though it makes some uncomfortable.  For example, he said something on the subject around Azza, during our visit, and she shuddered and then covered her ears upon hearing his words.  These are very hard things for some people to listen to. 

By the way, my father is an artist, and I wanted to include a couple of photos, the first one of him working and the second of a finished piece.  What I’m about to say might sound strange, but I think some of the beauty of his creations comes from the fact that he knows his time, on this planet, is limited.  

It just so happens that my father and stepmother’s house, in Georgetown, Texas, is located near Odd Fellows Cemetery, the place where my paternal grandparents now “rest.”  One evening I took a walk to Odd Fellows—that’s a perfect name for a graveyard—with the sole purpose in mind of locating their grave sites, which I managed to do.  The proof can be found below.