Southern Belle, Part One

Death may be like finding out the kettle is whistling before you’ve had a chance to prepare the coffee grinds because you’re busy doing something at the sink. Oh Kat, up until the last day you lost your fight you never left the kitchen long enough to realize you were disappearing.

When I think of Kat there’s a quote from Macbeth that comes to mind. The line, spoken by a minor character, occurs at the start of the play and refers to the death of the Thane of Cawdor: Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it. Cawdor has his tangle with the grim reaper, loses of course, but comes out smelling like a rose. The same fate awaits Macbeth- in essence, it’s life as a series of moats, crossbows, the occasional and inevitable ferocious battle, after which you expire, and in some cases, nobly.

What does all this have to do with Kat? This may be a far cry from a Shakespearean tragedy, I definitely am a minor character on the world stage, and in essence it’s just the story of an ordinary woman. But along with the noble strivings and cruel smites of destiny, it did occur to me that Kat’s demise was like a twisted version of that very sentiment from Act I, only in reverse- it seemed nothing “became” Kat’s family so much as her departure from it. That is not to say they were “evil” and certainly not overly ambitious, as in truth they mostly liked to hang out and get high. But did they really have to soak up all those condolences in the same stupid, smiley, self-centered, mindless way in which they sucked the life out of her?

You’re probably wondering what I mean by that allegation, so let me begin at the beginning. . . .

Tutu Lore (a May Day parable)

NooNoo has a tutu.  Oh, a tutu! 

It's a tutu basically in size zero of pale lavender that slips nicely over her onezies and seems to go with just about everything. She wears it easily and proudly, and totally unselfconsciously. When NooNoo plops herself upon her mama's lap, the gauzy folds spread out around her like a prima ballerina taking her final, glorious bow in Swan Lake  moments before the bouquets arrive. She's Sleeping Beauty and Titania and Giselle all rolled into one, and the effect is indeed indescribable.

In truth, her arms are not quite as graceful nor as long yet as one would expect in order for her to star in such demanding roles, but this is due mainly to all those adorable folds, creases and delectable pouches that adorn them, and also of course because of her age; nor is her hair perfectly styled or sufficiently abundant at this point to hold a tiara; and being less than three months old naturally she is not nearly tall enough yet for a rousing and flawless pas de deux. Nonetheless, she's irresistibly engaging, with a certain transcendency of movement that causes an audience comprised of all sorts of otherwise rational adults to go simply gaga over her diminutive little tutu presence; they demand and eagerly anticipate more and more of her irrepressible encores, which usually occur after naps and diaper changes.

And yet despite all the baby fanfare, hullaboo and overload of attention she receives- especially when NooNoo hams it up with those sillynilly expressions of clueless wonder- there is a certain natural grace to the way she casually drops her head onto your shoulder and delicately, almost imperceptibly choreographs a kind of seamless cheek to cheek. . . .