You have an irrational fear of bears.
* * *
When you were only 22, I took you for a walk in Cedar Bluff State Park in Kansas. You asked,
- Are there bears?
- There’s corn.
- Don’t bears eat corn?
- As long as we outrun the corn, we’ll be fine.
* * *
I have an irrational fear of missing fine details. I piece together images taken from the stories you’ve told me, running scenes through my head until it’s enough. 30 years. Today it’s enough.
* * *
You know I’ve always held too little regard for order. I ask you to tell me, but jump from year to decade, and back, asking unfocused questions that must frustrate you to no end. It’s how I need to know you.
* * *
I would forsake grace to see these moments.
* * *
August 1994. I’m walking along Str. Nicolae Balcescu, by myself for the first time. But I stop before reaching Piata Mare, drawn through a passage that ends in a deep blue wall. Past this point I descend the outer wall of the Old City. Across the street from where I now stand is a hospital.
I would forsake grace to stand here on January 9, 1976, the day you were born, to be in the presence of the world at that moment, to notice the change in colors in sky, fine details I would dedicate to memory. I would feel the day grow warmer at your arrival, watch icicles begin to melt with your presence. I would stay on this side of the street and watch your father greet you from the sidewalk.
* * *
I cross the street, busier now with newer cars, German BMWs and Opels, signs of the new freedoms. No one stands outside the hospital now, no ghosts of future husbands giving up their place in heaven to watch the present birth of future wives. The next street, Str. Gimnasticii, draws me in further. I know one block over is Lucian Blaga, with its linden trees shading the houses of former Party members, communist bears; lush, guarded homes with wide sidewalks in front. But I’m distracted by a terra cotta building flying a Romanian flag. Distracted not by the flag, which may have once had its center torn out, but by nicks in the paint. Walking closer to the walls, I see that the nicks are bullet holes.
* * *
I would forsake grace to stand in front of you in December 1989, even knowing full well that you made it home safely. Just two weeks from your 14th birthday, watching your mother disintegrate along with the rest of her country, coming out of hiding to scream for the fall of a dictator, ducking back behind terra cotta and linden, coming out again in rage and panic, running home, where for weeks you boiled the water, rumors of poison and retribution. I would forsake grace to drink that first cup.
* * *
The bullet holes force me back towards the city center, in this memory that I now manipulate for my own benefit; to avoid that first failure of mine, not being here for you, spending my days more concerned with driving lessons and winter homecoming a world away.
* * *
Pride of your accomplishments must seem like those bears to you. When you look back at what you’ve overcome, you run away, fleeing through sunflower fields rather than facing the merits of what you’ve earned.
* * *
As a child, you stand outside at 2 in the morning, impossibly cold, and quite possibly bitter; You shouldn’t be here in this moment, shivering, waiting for a bit of food. I would have you accept the rewards of your sacrifice, and then wipe this wretched scene from your memory.
* * *
As a girl, you stand outside a bar mustering the courage to enter and drag your father home, his paycheck already spent, but you walk in anyway and navigate the darkened room no safer than among the flying bullets of a revolution. I think I understand your fear of bears. I would have you acknowledge the courage you show in this scene, and I would forsake grace if I could then wipe it from your memory.
* * *
You told me once that in the middle of a game, your coach hit you in the face for not following his instructions. I dare not think about this scene too often, or how desperately I want to catch his hand. But to do so would rob you of your moment. You stand up to him. For the first time, I’m sure he knows what it’s like to fear a woman. He never touched you again. I would let you keep this memory, Alex, though I would wipe it from my own mind.
* * *
I count the concrete steps of your flat, one for each loved one you’ve lost, one for each gained. I knock on the door, and present you with flowers. Your father pours me a drink. Your grandmother kisses me on the cheek and howls in laughter. Bianca sniffs my boots. Your mother takes my coat. Grace has brought me to this memory, 11 years ago, Alex. And grace has allowed me to wish you happy birthday every year since.
* * *
Before you go to sleep, you place a sprig of basil beneath your pillow. It’s a very old custom. The dreams you have on this night hold great importance, and clues to your future. I forsake what little grace I have left to make those happy dreams; full of hope and promise of what’s to come; and free of the bears that have haunted you all these years, in all their fleeting forms.