Sheil Haryana and Martha Jones shall have access to my apartment to gather their personal belongings, as well as any music, letters, or photographs that pertain to them.
Several moments passed as I studied the sparse document. I ran my index finger under each word, slowly searching for a hidden message, but there was nothing more. It’s all up to me. He left it all up to me. The buzzer rang, startling me out of my daze. I went to the speaker. “Yes?’
“It’s Martha.” I buzzed her in immediately and could hear her bounding up the steps beside my four-legged friend. I opened the door and fell to the floor as Jackson pounced on me with the full weight of his front legs.
“I missed you, buddy!” He licked my face and shifted from paw to paw as I scratched behind his ears. I stood up and sank into Martha’s embrace. “Thank you for taking care of him… and Kell’s.”
“Oh, my Mia Pia! It’s so good to see you, sweetheart.” She pushed my shoulders back to study my face. Looking right into my eyes, she said, “We have some work to do… don’t we?”
That was the understatement of the century.
Track 2: Hello, I Like You
Sorting through a box of pictures, Martha pulled one out and held it up. “Do you remember this, Mia Pia?” I scanned the black-and-white photo as the memory came flooding back. We were at the Memphis Zoo, all of us. I was about six, sitting atop my father’s shoulders. On one side of us stood my mother and David, on the other side stood Martha and her husband, Jimmy. We were all smiling exuberantly at the camera except for my mother; she was looking at my father and me. Her smile was different—it wasn’t excited, it was warm and full of love.
Martha, Jimmy, and Pops had been on a road trip all over the U.S. My mother and David decided we would meet them in Memphis. Just moments after we took the picture, it began raining. Instead of calling it a day, my father pointed and shouted, “To the butterflies!” Showered by the warm rain, he skipped toward the exhibit with me bouncing above his six-foot-four frame. I held on to his ruddy brown locks while he hummed “Rocky Road to Dublin.” I remember feeling safe, loved, and exactly where I should be. Inside the screened enclosure, he pointed to a chrysalis and explained metamorphosis to me.
“Pops, will I have a metamorphosis?”
“Of course, luv. We are ever changing, always learning, always evolving.”
“So I’ll be a beautiful butterfly one day?”
He smiled and chuckled. “You’re a beautiful butterfly now. It’s the change that happens in here that matters.” He pointed to my heart.
Before handing the picture back, I stared at it for several moments, absorbing everyone’s youthfulness. Martha’s hair had gone completely silver since that time and her eyes, still wildly expressive, had dulled from a stunning blue to a cloudy gray, framed with heavy lines. She rarely wore makeup; instead she maintained her classic hippie vibe, always in colorful shirts and long, flowy skirts or faded jeans. I handed the picture back while she continued sifting through the box. When she reached for it, she glanced up and noticed my puffy eyes. She began taping up the box hurriedly.
“Hang on to all of this for yourself, sweetie, and go through it when you’re ready.”
I carried the box to the hall closet and shoved it onto the top shelf for another time.
Sheil and Martha came to the apartment several times in the days after I arrived in New York. They gathered items that were meaningful to them while we all worked to make the place seem more like mine.
Sheil remained quiet in her grief. Her silence was perceived as indifference to some, but I knew better. She had traveled here from India twenty years ago as part of a music troupe. Once she met my father, there was no looking back. An accomplished sitar player, Sheil had become very successful, working with the World Music Institute. Her transcending beauty and passion when she plays has made her a sought-after musician for many different kinds of acts looking to add that Eastern sound.
Even though I never saw her cry outwardly, I knew she was in a lot of pain over the loss of my father. She had found him in the apartment just moments after his heart attack. At his funeral she played a very long and sorrowful piece of music, but her face remained completely stoic. When I hugged her afterward, I realized the front of her sari was drenched. Tears had poured from her eyes without any change in her facial expression. It’s pure pain and pure surrender when your soul cries without any fight from your body and that’s how I knew she was deeply affected.
Pops’s funeral was more like a tribute. A large crowd gathered in the garden next to St. Brigid’s church where several musicians played songs and patrons of the café spoke about his generosity and character. That day was uncharacteristically warm for February. I remember through tears I marveled at the shards of light piercing through the trees, flooding the space with warmth and energy. It was a beautiful way to say goodbye to his body and a reminder that his spirit would remain. It was exactly what he would have wanted, something more like a peaceful memorial concert outdoors as opposed to a sad wake at Kell’s. In my father’s will he requested to be cremated but left no instructions regarding his remains. In my heart I promised that I would do something with his ashes. I would find a way to give his spontaneous, loving spirit one last hoorah.
Sheil lives in the apartment directly above Kell’s. My apartment is one building down and situated above Sam’s Italian Restaurant. Sam’s does not serve any coffee; they send all their customers to Kell’s, claiming we have the best cappuccinos. In return, we let them use a small storage space in our back office. It’s been a worthwhile relationship.