My neighbors sometimes come over to my house to borrow some lemon juice or garlic powder. Since I live by myself, I like to have visitors. I always invite them in to chat.
I like it when they stop in my kitchen and take in the paintings on my wall, or point to the ceramic giraffe on the windowpane and ask, "Did you make that yourself?" I am very pleased when my neighbors show an interest in my old, dusty art.
My works are the legacy of the long and colorful life I have led. It does my soul good to see it light up fresh, young faces.
My neighbors are so polite to me - I'm their sweet old lady - but I do wonder sometimes if they are secretly disgusted by the array of cobwebs they must pass on the way to my kitchen. I suppose most people get rid of cobwebs as soon as they notice them, but when my guests have left, the spiders are the only company I have. I want to make a comfortable home for them, so I let them spin on the ceiling and between my plants and even against the portrait of David I've placed on the shelf above my headboard. I can see why they are attracted to David's photo. I am so attracted to it myself. It was taken two weeks before he was killed in the automobile accident which I survived. I think this is still how David looks in the next world. The lucky man will be twenty-eight forever.
When I play my piano, it is to remember David. It is also to reach, so that he understands where I am and that I'm still alive. And the spark in the jar on top of the Steinway normally grows brighter and even hums a little when I play.
My divine spark. I am so proud of it. It is the one object in the house I do not allow the spiders to touch. I gave my spark its liveliness in my youth. With each painting, each sculpture crafted from my careful fingers, my spark grew. It is the proof of my meaningfulness and my greatest treasure.
Lately, I've taken to showing my spark to my lemon-juice-and-garlic-powder neighbors. Why not? My life is nearly over - - they enjoy my spark. It entertains them as much as my paintings and ceramics.
To my surprise (and suppressed chagrin), one day Mrs. Anderson asks me if she can borrow my spark along with my lemon juice.
"What on Earth would you want my spark for?" I say. "I doubt it has a very good flavor."
Mrs. Anderson laughs a polite laugh-at-the-old-lady's-cute-joke laugh. "I'm taking a pottery class," she says. "I thought a divine spark might come in handy."
I am thrown for a loop. I never thought anyone would want to use my old spark for their own artistic purposes. Part of me is indignant at the suggestion - can't she start on making her own spark? Yet a more aggressive part of me - my terrible nuisance of an ego - is flattered.
"Yes, yes, of course you can borrow it," I then respond, retrieving the sacred gem from the top of the Steinway. "I'm in no rush for it, but please be very careful with it and return it unbroken." I feel a bit more relaxed about loaning it. All I ever do with it now is admire it...shouldn't it at least sometimes be used again?
Mrs. Anderson returns the spark within a week, but I learn that the other neighbors have discovered that she had it. The others now come also to borrow my spark, whether their child is beginning ballet classes or they want to rearrange their furniture. It is no longer lemon-juice-and-garlic-powder visiting. It worries me to no end -my spark could be so easily lost or broken. But I am terrified of alienating my neighbors. And when I see them on the street now, they glow. My reputation as a kind old lady is replaced with an almost pious reverence for my talent and generosity. I enjoy that. It gives me a sense of the power I used to feel when I painted.
Everything is fine for a while. My neighbors return the spark in ample time. Sometimes it is slightly altered in length or width, but that is to be expected. It used to change like that when I painted or sculpted, too. "I'm really very happy you have more to do than sit on top on the piano," I say to it when I have it in my own hands again. "You could live forever, I bet." My next visitor is Laurel, the teenage daughter of the people who live at the other end of the block. Since most of my visitors are women in their 40's and 50's, I am a little surprised to see her.
"Hello," she says, "My name is Laurel Hanson. I see you walking in the morning."
"Yes, I know who you are. Your mother has come over to borrow things. Come in."
"I'd like to borrow your spark," she continues, not at all unexpectedly. "I have to write a book of poems for English."
I would really like to keep my spark on top of the piano for a while, but I certainly could not refuse it a chance to ignite a young soul like Laurel's. It is good to know that they are still encouraging the right brain somewhat in the high school.
"When can I expect it back?" I ask, hoping my tone of voice attaches proper importance to the question.
"Our poems are due next Friday. I'll bring it to you then," Laurel reassures me.
"Please don't drop it," I say, as I send the spark off with her. Laurel promises that she will not.
A week in a half is a long time to be without one's divine spark. Rather than sitting at the Steinway, I often fill my hours just gazing at David's photograph. I feel sadness in flashes. Without my spark, it is harder for me to keep my lover's memory alive. I think about finding Laurel's phone number and at least making sure the poetry is coming along well. But I don't want to be nosy. I cover my shivering shoulders with my old yellow afghan, chatter my teeth, and remind myself that my spark will be returned to be on Friday.
But it isn't.
All weekend, I make trips to the Hanson house and knock on the door, but there is never any answer. They must be busy people. I call directory assistance, but the number of Hansons who live in town is overwhelming. I don't know Mr. Hanson's first name.
Finally, on Monday night, I go to the Hanson house at 10 PM - which I certainly consider an unreasonable hour, and the door is answered by Laurel's mother.
"Well, hello, Corinne," she says. I sense marked concern in her voice. I don't blame her. When the old lady at the other end of the block pays you a visit at 10 at night, something must be terribly wrong.
"Hello, Cheryl," I return. "May I please speak with Laurel?"
Worry takes complete hold of Cheryl's expression. "I'm afraid she's sleeping overnight at a friend's house. Is something wrong?"
I stop withholding my despair. "I'm missing my spark."
Cheryl begins to set her face the way one would set one's face in order to tell a white lie, but I look at her straight in the eye and her mask drops. "We lost it," she says, looking down at her shoes.
"How could it get lost?" I demand, unbelievingly. "It throbs! It glows!"
"Laurel put off her poetry assignment until the last minute," Cheryl explains painfully. "So she took the spark to school. I think she thought she'd have time during lunch to finish. But I think one of the other kids must have taken it."
I am crushed. I cannot feel anger, hurt, or forgiveness. I simply turn around and leave. What Cheryl must feel as I walk away is the farthest thing from my mind.
At home, I stumble past my paintings and my sculptures. I sense that my art is disappointed in me. In bed, I stare at David's picture for a long time. I say out loud, "I'm sorry I was so careless with the spark you gave me." I can't sleep.
My life is so lackluster now. I've never known blander days in my life. I continue to be the lemon-juice-and-garlic-powder lady, but I am no longer the spark lady. People do not stay long to chat. I think they're afraid of me now, or of catching my stagnation as if it were a disease.
Sometimes David's portrait looks as if it's ashamed of me.
I still play the piano, but only as if I am an animatronic machine, not a breathing woman. I hammer out Chopin and Debussy until they are spinning in their graves and their music makes me nauseous.
When I can no longer stand it, I throw all my sheet music across the room and just play. I make loud, horrible noises. My pictures and ceramic figures and cobwebs all vibrate to my cacophony. My sounds are ugly, but they are mine. I thought that I could make nothing my own again. My lemon juice and garlic powder certainly aren't.
As I play on, I begin to feel, and then I begin to play what I feel. Love, hurt, grief, David...it all comes out and fills my home.
I play until I'm exhausted. Getting into bed, I examine the picture on the headboard. David looks like he might look a little less ashamed of me now.