I wrote one small section at a time, as I would write poems, and then when enough of them had accrued, I began working with the small pieces to find the shape for the larger whole. As a poet and as a writer of critical essays I am not wired to “write long,” but bit by bit, the pieces made a whole. The space between the chapters functions as a pause, like the white space after stanzas or between poems in a collection. I didn’t want to “bury the lead,” so I thought it important to tell, up front, the story of my husband’s sudden passing, in real time. But then it seemed inevitable that in order for the reader to continue to care about the characters and stay engaged with us that I needed to talk about love, and falling in love, and the rich years that Ficre and I spent creating a family around shared political, artistic, and domestic values, augmented by devotion to home and family, blood and chosen.
3. Can you tell us a little about your life since you completed the memoir? How did you guide your loved ones through such a difficult transition? How has your role as a mother changed since then?
Two and a half years after losing our beloved Ficre, I find it amazing that my sons and I have moved our lives to New York (though I continue to teach at Yale), that they are thriving in school, family, city life, that I have finished a memoir I am proud of, and that we are standing tall. I don’t actually know how I did it except to say that I have always been taught to be strong and ready, and to call upon “the village,” however far flung. I have drawn even closer to my sons and spend as much time as possible with them, listening to them and continuing our family life, keeping the memory of their father alive while also stepping into the light of the future. A few months after Ficre died I said to myself, with surprise, “You are a single mother!” I have always had great respect for women who do the tough, full-time job of child-rearing alone, and when you are used to doing it with a highly engaged partner, as Ficre was, it’s a real adjustment. There’s just more to attend to and more responsibility, and I deeply miss the intimate shared processing of my children’s lives. So life needs to be quite organized. I have a lot of support. And it is a daily privilege and joy to mother my two extraordinary sons.
4. Were there books or works of art that you turned to in the process of writing this memoir?
For a long time I didn’t read anything, couldn’t read. I felt I had no room to take in anything that would make my brain and emotions work harder. Reading would have made me feel more than I could bear, it seemed. That changed with Tony Judt’s The Memory Chalet, wherein he chronicles the vivid dream and memory life that persists even as he is essentially immobilized by Lou Gehrig’s Disease (A.L.S.). I then tried to stay away from books that were explicitly memoirs of loss, because I didn’t want to unconsciously borrow anything. But Edwidge Danticat’s memoir Brother, I’m Dying stayed important to me, about filial love and loss in a family dealing with the vagaries of the immigration system. I also spent a lot of time with the poetry of Lucille Clifton and Rainer Maria Rilke, poetry that was emotionally knowing, clear and true, and attendant to the mysteries of life at the same time. I found—and still find—I craved music of all kinds, as often as possible. I want to be flooded with music because it makes me feel alive, beyond words.
5. What would you tell someone in their twenties who wants to be in a relationship?
I would tell them that you really never know when love is around the corner, so be alert to what life offers you. I would tell them to find love by being their best selves, enriching themselves, exploring the activities and ideas they love. I would tell them that once you are in a relationship love is a garden that needs tending, corny but true. And I would tell them that if you love and then lose a person—as we all do in some way or another—you do not lose the love you were given and participated in. It is indelible.