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September 2011

Madelyn’s mail is being forwarded to our house from Bedford. One errant piece was delivered to a neighbor. He brought it down the hill waving it over his head, “I have a letter for Madelyn!” he called. I felt a momentary jolt. Had I forgotten something? Had I only imagined that she had died three months ago? Then I realized that he had received one of the many envelopes with the yellow sticker slapped over the address, the forwarding label.

Sitting at my desk, I sort through the growing pile of papers. The postcard from the Cos Cob Library announces a show of bird prints. Madelyn used to give poetry readings there. It’s been eight years since she left her home in Connecticut to move to a retirement community in Massachusetts but I now see that she had kept up with the events happening in her home of sixty years.

A flier from the Wenham Museum arrives with an order form for the 2012 Phillips Brooks Calendar, the one with the days of the week shown vertically rather than horizontally. For decades, Madelyn marked future events on these calendars. She saved every one as a record of her life. When a question arose about what year we vacationed in Small Point or the date of someone’s wedding, she’d say, “I’ll have to check my calendar.” Our vacations were recorded here: June 15, B and D away; June 23, B and D back. The events of the day she died are recorded in a shakey hand, an appointment with the eye doctor, a visit from her daughter. Brochures arrive from the organizations she supported: Trust for Public Land, The Greenwich Arts Council, The Humane Society.

I pick up the telephone and tell a voice on the other end of the line to take her off the mailing list. Madelyn O’Neil has died I say, that’s O apostrophe N-E-I-L.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the person often answers. There’s a pause. Trying to make her feel better, I assure her, Well, she was ninety-eight. She had a good long life. But as I say these words it almost feels worse that she was that old; that there were so many years to grow to love her, to realize how she was woven into the fabric of my life. I’d known Madelyn for thirty-two years, the loss felt deeper because of that.

Back to the phone calls. I dial a number, press two for customer service. I say it again as if each time I say it, I am learning the hard fact myself. “My mother-in-law has died,” I say. “Please remove her name from the mailing list.”

Letter by letter, card by card, a life ends. Strings are cut and soon she will float free of any earthly connection. No mail in the box, no jolly pleas for donations, no statements from the bank.

For now I am kind of enjoying looking through the clothing catalogs that also find their way to our house with her name on them. I sit at the table with a cup of tea beside me and leaf through each one, looking at what is new for fall. Madelyn had a simple elegance that I always admired. “What would she have chosen?” I wonder. I realize that from now on I will often ask myself this question at the most unexpected times.