Giving in to Night

I listened to his old voicemails, then I sewed the moon

Some shades of night seem unrelated to time. Some are darker, suddenly. Others seem to plod along, all business, as if manufactured by cosmic steam engines to stay that way ‘til morning. And some nights are just doors swung open to space—endless, cold truth.

Nighttime is a strong confrontation for us mortals. My eldest has been asking about it over the past few months:

Is it dark out? Why? Where’s the moon?

Why?

She asks these kinds of questions with her whole body: eyebrows, lips, hands, toes—outward and up. Same with death, same with crying.

Why are you sad? Why did he die?

Look at that stitching! “Fragment from Bedcover (Crazy Quilt Block)” 1884. Is it crazy because they used all their scrap pieces to make it, or because they were grieving a tragic death and sought to physically manifest it? Could go either way.

Day must end. Life does, too. And then it comes back around again. Sometimes we talk about the planet, sometimes bodies. So we make a point to go outside at night to puzzle over the state of things up there. Moon or no moon? Stars or clouds? Why?

She’s onto something. Children know how to wonder, man. I’ve heard people say it, like it’s whatever—including myself. I’ve re-read (and recommend) Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. But in the moment, when kids summon you into curiosity, you go somewhere unwritable. And when the stars are above us, when the sky can’t hide anything…well, neither can I.

Since my dad died, I mostly experience grief at night. My daughters keep my daytime thoughts reigned in.

I nurse my baby overnight, though, and that half-consciousness dwells between thoughts of death and sounds of sleep. I often wake up for an hour at a time and linger with him, with my thinking-version of him. Remembering his handshake, his hug, his scars. His smirk and his morals. Memory waits all day for this.

Except a baby slaps me awake, not an impressionist moonbeam (but maybe I’ll call her that from now on).

Then memory sinks back down into my head and the dreams resume: a simple t-ball game; some Hostess cupcakes. A hamster rolling down the stairs; my dad burying her at the beach. They push on and on into odysseys of saving him, finding him, and/or mistaking him for someone else. At night, he seems to come back, or has never died at all…and it seems so real. As dreams do. He never died, it didn’t happen, he’s waiting for me to call him back.

The dream-tone is admonishing even if my dad is not.

“Just look under the couch for your dad, Bette Jane. There he is, under all your kids’ socks.” My dad gives me a thumbs-up.

“Just open that door—no, that one, in his old apartment that you never noticed and didn’t bother to check until now.” My dad laughs. Silly daughter.

Usually, the conclusion is torturous celebration: he’s alive. Or still is. Or could have been. He should be. Shouldn’t he?

Then I’m awake. And he’s gone, again.

“Chrysanthemums and the Rising Moon” 1766 Suzuki Harunobu 鈴木 春信

A few evenings ago, I drove in the car by myself. This is still a rare thing, postpartum. Plus, we live in a mountain town. To be out and about in a clear winter night, alone, feels like an extraordinary lift into magic.

Maybe too much so. I drove into town to get some green onions and cilantro. I pulled down the alley to get a sly Friday night parking spot. The potholes were iced over and flush with the dirt road. I parked, turned the car off, and sat. My phone lit up. I don’t know why, but I wished it was my dad. And I let myself wonder there, I let myself realize the thing I could do, the door I could open, that maybe I wouldn’t regret…

It was the first time since he died. I pulled up his old voicemails. “Dad”. Just reading the name kicked my heart.

I knew what I was doing.

“Hey sis, it’s your dad, give me a call back…”

His voice, outside my own mind. His hard-earned speech. Memory and technology and ghost. It was a vacuum of night and my soul shot in.

A few people saw me weeping in the car and kept their heads down. I only listened to two voicemails. I let it out and then got my groceries and went home.

But I was right—I didn’t regret it. I knew I’d be taking a volatile substance; I’d be cracking open my brain and unleashing the chemistry of haunting and missing. I’d be giving in to night.

DIY Sew the Moon

One of our favorite bedtime books is Margaret Wise Brown’s “Goodnight Moon”. It’s a beautiful process, an experience, every time we read it. My daughter whispers the last line with us:

Goodnight noises everywhere

The writing and illustrations turn over that magic I was talking about. They connote the simple beauty of being alive again, going to bed again, not knowing everything, again. Loving what we do know. And that last line…“goodnight noises everywhere”. We’re not the only ones doing this, even if we can’t see or hear each other. We know we’re out there—here. It’s grounding and humbling. It’s sleepy and it rhymes. It’s a work of art.

I got this standing picture frame for free at our local thrift store. My grandma gave me all of her notions (what a great word) along with her sewing machine, including denim patches. And, so, I sewed the moon.

Do we practice for death through night? Children gravitate towards these mysteries because they’re the big ones and they know it—and they know the difference between a good answer and a bad one.

Still, the truth of death has shades—like night and beauty. Some are darker, suddenly. It depends on the observer.

I wish my dad was here, so very badly. He lived with pain, Parkinson’s, and long nights. Is it selfish of me to want him back? Did he die tragically? Is his life, itself, a tragic story?

I’m circling these questions. So far, here in these letters, I’ve shared my writing for free and in-full. I’ve shared that I hope to connect with other people impacted by Parkinson’s and grief, especially kids of people with Parkinson’s, and through art. I plan to continue sharing this for free, for the meantime.

Share Hey Sis

But as the work becomes increasingly personal, and because I can’t afford to write for free, I will transition Hey Sis to a paid-subscriber model, with the additional offering of podcast interviews that discuss Parkinson’s, caregiving, resources, grief, and art.

Until then, my husband will be back soon from a walk with our girls, and this day will demand attention before it gets handed over to the other guy.

Until then, thank you for being here.

Bette Jane