The White Elephant in the Room

One of Alberto’s longtime friends recently stopped in New York on his way to Italy. I gave him a piece of art Alberto had painted, as well some of his ashes to be spread in Rome at a place that he deemed worthy. Send me a picture of the view, I’d said. 

He sent the picture today.

Ponte Malvio looks exactly like the kind of place that would inspire Alberto to stop, drop and photograph.

Ponte Malvio looks like an Italian version of the place I spread Alberto in London.  

Oct. 24, 2009: Tre Miller-Rodriguez just realized that her London hotel will be a few blocks from…where else…Royal Albert Hall. (10:26am via Twitter) 

After reserving a suite for Thanksgiving week, I look at a map and see that the Baglioni Hotel is steps away from not just Royal Albert Hall but also the Albert Memorial. I share this information via SMS with his sister, mother and my parents. My mom sends me a gushing text about the history of Albert Hall: Queen Victoria dedicated the cornerstone to her husband, Albert. Who died at 42 years old.

Are you effing serious, I text back.

She replies that she would never kid about history.

Nov. 23, 2009, 9:32 am: In the land of Celsius, Alberto always converted to English. When I check the weather for London today, I have to find a conversion Web site to know how to plan and what to wear. It’s 55 degrees Fahrenheit and rainy, so I decide on the annual Wildlife Photography exhibit at the Natural History Museum.

According to the forecast, Thanksgiving will be the only sunny day this week so I designate that day to visit the Albert Memorial and sprinkle him in the Long Water pond.

Nov. 26, 2009: Tre Miller-Rodriguez is sad, whelmed, grateful, loved. (3:40pm via Facebook Mobile)

It’s Thanksgiving in America, and I’m headed to Hyde Park with a map, his ashes and a bag of flowers. I haven’t listened to the “Sinatra & Sammy” playlist on my iPod since he’s been gone, but this seems like the right time and place to try it on for size. By the time I reach the Albert Memorial—gold, garish, iconic—Sinatra has turned into Sammy Davis Jr. and “Bye Bye Blackbird” has become my soundtrack.

I want to climb the monument and sit in the lap of the gold statue bearing the inscription ALBERT. But instead, I walk around its perimeter with his Casio, looking for the perfect frame. Since one side of the memorial is under construction—nothing like scaffolding to ruin a shot—I don’t take many pictures.

I say goodbye to the statue and follow the path toward Long Water, where I’ve decided to sprinkle him. When I reach it, I realize this is not the spot: people and dogs are everywhere. There’s zero privacy for my ritual. I scan the lake, looking for another place. A bridge looks promising—until I notice cars driving across it.

At the opposite end of the pond, I see a plaza with a Roman balcony overlooking the water. I head toward it, stopping to watch tourists hand-feed a grey squirrel and again to shoot a verdigris statue of Peter Pan. The plaza comes into view just as Sammy ends and a Cuban song begins. It’s from the first CD Alberto made for me and I’m surprised to hear it on this playlist, but loving that it’s scoring this moment.

As I reach the balcony, the sun is starting to set. I notice a stone fountain with moss-covered, cherubic faces. There’s a shallow pool at the fountain base, which spills slightly into the pond.

This is the spot.

I sit on the steps that descend to the fountain and unpack the flowers and black lacquer box. This ritual will be over in less than two minutes once I open the box, but I’m not quite ready for that so I light a cigarette and rewind my memory to Thanksgiving Day a year ago.

I’d woken early and muted the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while Alberto slept. Gift-wrapped a pair of candles and candlesticks for Barby and set out the 14 lbs. of garlic mashed potatoes I’d made two nights before.

As we got ready to head to Jersey, the program on TV—he must’ve changed the channel when I was showering—was a comedian performing in a classroom setting.  He was explaining how the middle finger became an obscene gesture and what “Yankee Doodle” was really about. We’d laughed as we layered on sweaters and scarves, and headed downstairs to the garage with mashed potatoes, candlesticks and bags of wine (but not wine bags).

Barby had made white rice just for Albert—as she would on Noche Buena too—and he’d done what he did after every holiday meal at Barby’s: took a nap in the guest bedroom. I’d done what I did after every holiday meal at Barby’s: called my family in California and passed the phone around so everyone could catch up.

I now find myself craving my grandparents’ ranch house in California, fireplace roaring and kids running about—instead of sitting here, in cold-ass London with a box of my husband’s ashes on my lap.

A baby sea gull suddenly swoops down, alighting on the fountain to take a bath. I reach for the camera. The bird continues its bath and I snap a few shots. When I check the digital images, I realize how lovely the light is just now. So I stand up with the box and the flowers and do what I came across the Atlantic to do. Through my tears, I hum Bye Bye Blackbird but change the words to Whitebird to match my little winged visitor.

After I’ve watched the last of Alberto settle among floating roses, freesia and autumn leaves, I take one last look at the view.

He would approve.

I pack up and head for the nearest gate, where tourists are posing each other in front of the fading sunset sky. It’s a surprising shade of Post-It yellow so I pull out the camera to capture it.

As I click the button, a light blinks red and the screen flashes the words MEMORY FULL.

Yeah, that’s about right.

I grab the nearest cab, settle into its warmth and notice a blank yellow Post-It on the floor. I pick it up, turn it over.

Three letters: A X O.

Twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Infinite combinations. And this Post-It has the first letter of his name, followed by XO?

Alberto, are you really leaving me hugs and kisses on a sticky note in a cab? At this moment? When I’m so lonely I want to slip into my world of MEMORY FULL and stay there forever?

I shake my head, bite my lip, but the tears come anyhow, along with a smile I can’t help either. I’m still laugh-crying in the backseat when I arrive at the hotel, where I exit with the Post-It tucked into my Moleskine. I fight the urge to look back at the cab, partly because he might be inside it, waving to me—bye-bye! bye-bye!—and partly because I don’t want to know for sure that he’s not.

Feb. 2, 2009: Tre Miller-Rodriguez has a friend in London this week who asks for directions to the Albert memorial and the pond where I sprinkled you on Thanksgiving. (12:38pm via Facebook) 

I’m hating cremation just a little less today.