Monday

A few days ago my Great-Aunt Nora died. Nora lived in a trailer park in Maine, and did her shopping at the park's convenience store, unless she got a ride to the supermarket from her friend Amber, or someone in our family. Nora had a sweet tooth and a zest for life; she celebrated both with a splash of Bailey's in her coffee, and a scratch-and-play lottery ticket whenever the budget allowed (probably even when it didn't). I remember her modest home filled with Pomeranians and stray cats, giant cans of Chock full o' Nuts coffee, stale cigarette smoke, piles and piles of magazines and promotional flyers, and best of all, her bubbly, rolling laugh. ''Heee-heee-heee,'' she would giggle, tipping forward with her dowager's hump. My father loved Nora -- she was my mother's aunt -- and always insisted on visiting her before going home, even though that pit stop meant an hour-long detour before an eight-hour drive.

As my brother and I discussed the flowers we would send to the funeral home, my mind drifted towards the autumnal horizon, which will forever be linked with the anniversary of our own father's death. His passing was swift and unexpected, though when I had seen him the day before, I said, ''Goodbye, Captain,'' and somehow knew that it was a final goodbye. The next day I woke as usual. Before going to class, I called home. No one answered, but I left a message, thanking my parents for bringing me homemade applesauce and cinnamon raisin bread. We shared love through food, and my belly was the best emblem of this love. That evening, I had a three-hour lecture, from 7 - 10pm.

Sometime before eight, while sitting in the lecture hall, I started to panic and feel agitated. I tried to wait for the class break, but suddenly, and without knowing why, I gathered my things, left the lecture hall, and immediately called home. When no one answered, I called my mom on her cellphone. At that moment, she was driving down the lane to our house. Richards Lane is a narrow road with barely enough room for one car to pass. In early November, there are few remnants of the plush tree canopy that beckons you down the hill, and since the lane is privately owned, there are no street lamps. Our house, built by my grandfather in 1936, is at the end of the quarter-mile path.

I don't remember what my mom and I were talking about until she said, ''that's funny, daddy didn't leave the lights on for me.'' We chatted as she parked the car and walked up to the backdoor. ''Hmm. There's a note on a business card: 'Taken to the hospital - call police.' Johanna, something's happened to daddy, let me call you back.''

A few minutes passed and my phone did not ring. So I called her back. ''Johanna,'' my mom said in a frazzled voice, ''I haven't found your father yet. I am going to have to call you back.'' I sat on the steps behind my dorm and waited. Then my phone rang. ''Johanna,'' my mom began. ''I have some terrible news. Daddy died. . .When they couldn't find him in the ER, I knew to call the morgue.''

These melancholy memories were only heightened last night when I watched Sir Terry Pratchett's documentary, Choosing to Die. It chronicles his interviews with a few people who, like himself, were considering Dignitas, an assisted-suicide facility in Switzerland. Prachett currently battles Alzheimer's, and wants assisted suicide to be legalized in the UK.  Towards the end of the film, a woman sits by her husband as he drinks the poison, then begs for water (he is denied by the Gravitas staff member, who urges him to relax), falls asleep, and dies. The whole process takes fifteen minutes, but is condensed to two or three in the documentary. Sir Prachett is in the room as it happens, and as the viewer, so are you.

Lately I've been reading French Children Don't Throw Food by Pamela Druckerman, an absorbing, yet frustrating comparison of Anglo-Saxon and French child-rearing habits.What's most difficult about living in France is that I miss both: births and deaths. A good friend gave birth in Los Angeles on Thursday night; another gave birth nine months ago, but who knows when I will meet either baby. Coming home for Nora's funeral is hors question, but sending flowers feels like an unsatisfying ritual. Does it matter if we choose a colorful bouquet or standard white lilies?

With my balcony doors open this morning, I can once again hear the steady cries of the children playing at school across the street. The voices will change and the sounds will vary, but the gaiety remains strong all day long. I keep thinking that my life will morph into a neat, and easy-to-digest Hollywood ending (one of these days), but instead, I'm starting to think that messy and bittersweet are here to stay.