Final Morning in Kyoto, Final Night in Tokyo

Our final morning in Kyoto we went for the fancy hotel buffet. She didn't disappoint. Matcha croissants and yogurt jugs. We were seated next to the Other Americans--loud rich people who all answered phone calls during breakfast. I shuddered thinking about going home. We took an early cab to Fushimi and hiked up the tori gates. At first it felt overwhelming, but the higher we climbed, the thinner the crowd until there was peace. I left yen at the mouth of a fox. They had a message for me, but I didn't know what.

I showered, sat, bathed, sauna'd in the onsen for an hour. It was so calm and intentional, and I was so alone I bowed on my way out. Shoved everything in bags, before trotting out to the mouth of hell. I'd tried to go to the mouth of hell a day or two earlier, but I lingered too long in our room (probably just hungry) and by the time I got outside it was raining. I hustled back up to fetch raincoat, umbrella, etc. and then knew I had only an hour before the temple would close. I sprinted there, got lost, got in, walked around and finally had to desperately ask the ticket counter where the well was. A different temple, I found out. But I'd already paid the entrance fee, so I tromped to a tatami mat room, empty, sat down, and stared at the image of Buddha. Apparently, this temple is one of the first meditation sites on earth. And so I did my best.

Anyway, on this sunny day, I go to the teeny afterlife temple with no problem. I offer coins for dead people and stand at the haunted well. I take a bunch of selfies. I wear the tiny brown shoes and wish I could stay longer. I debate whether or not to buy a prayer plaque, opt not to, then regret it on the walk home--before a huge gust of wind sends floral perfume my way.

I stock up on convenience store snacks for the train, buy a final souvenir for Puhg, and then the bellhops call the cab and we head to the station. I journal the whole way, listening to Japanese Breakfast and sipping my last milk tea.

We arrive at the Ritz Carlton--hilariously the available hotel Puhg could book on points for the night. Before we arrive we think it's probably kind of silly, but once we're in the big room with the incredible view and fancy vanity bathroom, we think differently! I break out my hoard of cheese and crackers and berries. I blast Taylor Swift over the sound system. I wear the robe and slippers. We watch the sun get lower and lower over the biggest city in the world.

We walk to a nearby cabaret. Online it looked so fun and wild, but when we arrive, there are only a few quiet locals sitting in the back. But the show is excellent! An hour of choreography ranging from Fosse to traditional Noh theatre! Spinning stages and elaborate costumes and big drama! I adore it, and when the finale starts I screech, because the entire ensemble trots out in big pink dresses to one of my favorite songs of all time! I feel a burst of connection to the world. This pop ballad from the 80s I first learned at summer camp saying hi two decades later. At the end of the show, the emcee says, "ALICE FROM LOS ANGELES" and I am instructed to get on stage for a photo. Does this happen to all foreign guests? Is it random? We will never know. But I did as I was told and a dancer threw a towel over my lap because (I assume) she thought my dress was too short. As we settled our bill, the actors all walked out and thanked us for coming.

On the way back we spontaneously try a pizza spot with a neon light on. It's actually fantastic, salty puffy crust. In the darkness of night the room view is even more special, and it's even more difficult to go to sleep. I eat my leftovers in bed at midnight.

In this world we're just beginning/

to understand the miracle of living.

Until Next Time, Cap

Those last days at home are so crystalized. A week before she left, Puhg was at a concert, so we had a girls' night in. I made popcorn and watched _______ with her snuggled on my chest. I thought the movie was terrible and this bothers me, that the last film we ever watched together was so stupid. Even though she wouldn't know that. When it ended I played our song in the living room.

I don't remember how it became our song. I think I happened to be holding her while some 90s Spotify playlist looped. I danced with her fuzzy self and sang along "I'll never let you go, I'll never let you go." I found myself humming it all the time to her. A calming lullaby before she was comfortable with us. Hard to believe she came so frightened and jumpy, eventually a puddle in our hands. It was past midnight when Puhg's keys jangled in the door. Her ears perked as they always did.

5 AM Sunday I shuffled out to the living room as I often do when I can't sleep. She curled up into my lap as I read for two hours. I cried--unsure if I was imagining something was off or not. Puhg and I went on a long walk. We finally got a vet appointment, days away. At night she was eating apples again. In the morning we woke up our favorite way--hearing the water bottle click. But just a few hours later everything changed.

She was Sick. I called all over LA for help. She was manic then tired, climbing upside down then unable to hold her head up. Chewing then tossing her pellets around. We found a hamster ER, and flew there, her in a shoebox despising every bump and turn. A team whisked her away for urgent care.

We sat for hours watching dogs, cats, and one wheezing hedgehog come in. A guinea pig didn't make it. I didn't notice the time pass even though I had nothing to do but wonder if I'd ever see my dear one again. We were relieved she made it. The doctor recommended an overnight stay for pneumonia, antibiotics, oxygen. We were led to the back, tapped on her glass, told her it would be okay. Would it?

Days of waiting for "the call" gave me a permanent stomachache. I typically have healthy boundaries with my phone. I often leave it for short errands or keep it face down with friends. But not last week. I had it on full volume next to me 24/7. The doctor would call in the morning, then in the evening. They were kind, bright professionals who referred to my beloved with a chuckle: she is quite round or the little lady. We feared for a buzz off-schedule, meaning the worst. I made my ringtone "Bette Davis Eyes" last year. I thought it was funny. It was no longer funny.

When we visited two days later she was different. Exhausted and white. We held her and hoped. We gave her her ham house and a blueberry, which she ate slowly. I willed her to be better. We agreed to a bill for more everything. We took photos. I look horrible or maybe just like the saddest I've ever been. We cancelled Thanksgiving travel and spent the day quietly, vaguely tossing around the idea of a movie we wouldn't see. At 6 the call came: she improved! She ate some, seemed a little more energized, dialed down the oxygen! Her team would continue this plan. Oh, the hope. The puffing rising hope. She'll be home tomorrow.

But tomorrow her situation worsened. And would we like to come by, sooner than expected. I sobbed and put together a respectable outfit. Black pants, the sweater she chewed through the day she came home, my hamster headband. Filled my purse with seeds and fruit and cheese.

Agreeing to euthanize her was awful. Even now delusion creeps in. She couldn't comfortably breathe without an oxygen tank, and she couldn't really drink, and she seemed confused, but what if we'd just tried to take her? Maybe it was simply too bright in that new cage. Maybe there weren't enough shavings. Maybe it was all a mistake. We sat with her, held her, told her everything we could. But was it enough time? She was struggling for too long as is. But was it enough time? Was it enough time? She picked up the cheese but was too fatigued to chew. Herself only two weeks earlier would be shocked. She never passed up cheese. She never even stored it. Cheese is meant to be snacked immediately. Once we gave her a peanut and she shoved the whole thing in her pouch and darted to the back corner of her cage. It became a mantra for us: take the peanut and run. She managed to nibble at a blueberry, her last. She was sedated with a shot, her last memories of us before the finale. My head shrieked this isn't real. Was it enough time? 

I hate life going on. I've become small. I hate how the days build on themselves. I held her yesterday two days ago three days ago four days ago a week ago. She was carried away in a daze, going to the big wheel in the sky. And I also hate the big wheel in the sky.

She bit me one time, a year ago. It was so unexpected I yelped and plopped her back in her cage. After I washed the blood down the drain I realized she was limping. Poor thing had sprained her foot, lashed out in fear. We took away her toys to heal, I bandaged my finger. After a week she was scampering again. All that remained was a mark on my nail. A crack from her sharp teeth. I watched that crack move up and up over the months. A kind of calendar. Until one day I didn't notice it had left me at all.

It was a bright afternoon. Should we do anything? Puhg asked. I had put on extra sunscreen that morning. I didn't know why. He suggested the beach and I said, yeah, sure, why not? We never go to the beach, but we were 20 minutes away. We walked to the sparkling ocean. I drew her name in the sand. It would be washed away but not that I'd see. When it was time to go, we got back in the car and the wind knocked out of me. Blaring over the radio--that obscure 90s hit. I'll never let you go. I'll never let you go.

I can't stand mornings. I can't coming home. I got a new ringtone. There's no one to eat the vegetable scraps from dinner. I can't stand going to bed.

I have 300 videos of her because how could I not? They help. She was a true individual--so chonky and bossy but ultimately sweet. Unlike every other hamster I've had (angels to be sure), she loved to be pet and held and snooze on us. She communicated with nips and sounds. She brusked when happy and purred when alert and had trained us to give her a treat when she squeaked. She and I would have long long talks at night. Some of the videos are short--a few seconds of her running or cleaning. Others are long, a whole grooming session, minutes of her cozying into my shoulder, but they always end before I want them to.

I remember the stupid things, the mood rings, the bracelets and the beads

Nickels and dimes, yours and mine, did you cash in on your dreams?

Haunting

When I die I'm coming back as a ghost. I'll be at the help desk and the lady will say, "Now, if you take our basic package, you spend some time in purgatory and then eventually head on up. Or, for a premium we can send you express to heaven--"
"What about your ghost options?"
"Well, we usually reserve that for our embittered or rage-filled guests--"
"Sure, but I am just really interested--"
"According to your file, Ms. _______, we have heaven as...a giant trampoline made of Peeps? You're not interested?"
"I just really like ghosts is the thing."
She sighs, "Well, let me get my manager over here. And! You know you don't get any powers, right?"
"Not even ceramic skills?"
"Ha. Ha."
"And I have hungered for yooooour touch--"
"Yeah. You and every other person that comes through this office. Look. You want the haunting program director or not?"

My sister and I visited the cemetery for people who have died trying to climb Mount McKinley. (Some years two, some eight. In 2002 three brothers all together--27, 21, and 15.) I liked being there. I told her--my sister, I mean--that she will know my spirit remains because I'll be blowing on her with peanut butter breath for all eternity. I tell this to Bisque and he says he'll find my face in a burnt marshmallow--like a Jesus watermark. I tweet that and Shells counters, No, a Pop-Tart. Options.

AliceSr and I went on a ghost tour of Anchorage on Sunday. A woman committed suicide in the bathroom of the hotel we were staying in. Apparently something would snatch at women's ankles and shake walls until the stall was locked permanently. The chicas on the tour trickled in, took photos. One announced, "It smells like blood! It smells like blood!" and I rolled my eyes. It often smells like blood in the ladies room.

You flew out on a plane,
came crashing into the ocean,
and then you haunted me.
Don't have a clue what's the motion,
so every now and then it feels so soothing
when you float on a bit and move right though me.

A Bad Poem from the Heart

I think of you when I pass the Game Stop
the one on Harlem next to the store with the picture of the Egg.
I think of you when I pass the Game Stop--
which used to be fairly often when I lived in Chicago,
and even when I lived in St. Louis,
because it's south of suburbia and on the way.
It was a sign of good things to come--
getting home. I didn't like it in that half-lived in house
(my room, freshly painted with the new carpet I had picked out,
gutted besides one creaky twin)
but getting out of a car is getting out a car,
and I always did like our driveway. No,
I liked the rusted lamppost with our last name stuck on.
Anyway, it was the homestretch when I passed your old work.
I know I visited you there once. Why? Why?
I can't remember.

Chicago. September 2012.

I haven't been on that forever road headed north in three years.
So instead I think of the Game Stop when I think of you.
I love you and I miss you,
and if there was a time to believe in heaven
it is now.

Hiding at the Bottom of Your Swimming Pool Some September

Thanksgivin' Turkey Trot with Pookie. 2010.

LOOK AT US WEARING COATS LIKE SUCKERS! It's mid September, and it was over 100 today. I read about Shakespeare by the pool in my two piece. Word. Up.

I thank the heavens above for the things that remind me of the good parts of growing up in the Chicago suburbs. The feelings that I can only name by the images and sounds associated with them. Dark blue kitchen tablecloth, chirpchirpchirp, eating sliced strawberries with wet hair, spiders in glass jars, train whistles in the early morning, pine cones, fat comic anthologies, the railing of the public library.

And I thank the heavens for the flecks and flakes of it that have followed me here. And I thank the heavens in general.

And it's unclear.
This may be the last song.

After Life: Part II

Yesterday morning I watched a wonderful and inspiring Japanese film called After Life. The premise is that after people die, they get to pick their favorite memory, a crew works to recreate it, and then for all of eternity people just relive that moment.

First of all, what a pleasant view of the afterlife.
Second of all, it's very interesting to think about what people would pick as their favorite memory.

In the film, many people picked memories from childhood. At first, I found that depressing. The best moment of life happens when you're in grade school? I started to wonder what mine was...if I too was guilty of peaking in my teens. But, when I thought about it more, having a perfect tranquil kid memory might only be the best memory because it sets an important tone for the rest of life.

It's so hard to pick the best. Some people in the movie had trouble because in the end, they felt that everything had been bad or bland. At least I would have trouble picking because there are too many good memories to consider.

If I had to pick right now this very second I guess I would pick to relive performing a sketch I wrote with Trel at summer camp in 2003. It was really funny, and we got an encore. Isn't that random? I don't know. I don't consider it a failure that I was fourteen. I could pick any one of a million memories from last year and feel just as happy--there's just something special about that July Talent Show. Oh, who knows.