G. David Schwartz" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Commentary, EssaysDecember 9, 2013

In The “Things Just Disappear” Category

By G. David Schwartz

 

Photo by Aiez Mirza

Photo by Aiez Mirza

It happens to all of us. We put our pen down and, moments later, certainly twenty four hours later, it disappears. Items like our favourite pen or a book or a clasp, may be lost, but rarely are they cried over. On the other hand, when it comes to relatives or close friends, we may find ourselves in a well of tears. We may be sitting, let’s say, on the couch and we are writing a little remark which reminds us of a living person. We suddenly remember that we went to the zoo with him or her; we had a meal and talked about the future, the rest of our lives. We would never realise that later, days or years, Frankie would be in a fatal automobile accident, Sharon would be killed in a fire or that Bruce would be shipped off to the latest, the newest, Vietnam.

Many disappearances are flights into death. I will never forget my grandfather casually saying that “it happens to everyone.” Yes, far, far too many disappearances are explained by the loss of life. This makes me feel better when I am, for example, working at my computer and something I read prompts me to think of an old friend, like Alan.

Alan moved to another city. You may say this is not total disappearance, because I know what city he went to live and work in; I even know what he does for a living. Once or twice I tried to contact him, but it seems there were too many people with his name in that city. Or I may have just been too lazy to go all out to find him.

I began writing piece this about what will be said below but I can’t stop thinking that maybe I began this way hoping that Alan Paul would read and see that I, G David Schwartz, am still alive, still breathing, and still thinking about my best friend of the good old days, and still hoping that he is OK. Oh, well. That’s all I can do about that.

There, how’s that? Place the burden of disappearance on our frail and fragile memory.
So where was I?

Sadly, people die. It’s like you know where they are, and you know they‘re not leaving. Like the dead, there is the living whose location you know, but you just can’t get in touch with for any number of reasons.

There is a third category which now seems the worst. A friend gets ‘lost’ – a term used to denote those who just disappear and are eventually forgotten about until maybe the next day, or even years later.

My cousin Jerry moved to a big city and was never heard from again. I tried to contact him back in the good old days to no avail. I even called his parents one day and asked about him. They gave me his telephone number. I called and found out he was at work. Over time I lost the number. Years later, I was cleaning the house (OK, honey, just my little room, mainly my desk!) and I found Jerry’s number.

Immediately, I called. The same voice which answered years ago said Jerry was in the hospital. I admit, a tear or two came to my eyes. Now, several years later, I wonder if I was sad because my cousin was ill, because I would most likely never see him again, or because I was reminded that we’re all getting old.

To quote my grandfather again, “it beats the alternative.”

I do apologise for the title of this little venture that I’ve made. But perhaps you can tell by the two quotes from my grandfather that disappearance is inevitable. And as long as we have a memory, a loved one, a relative, a friend or a household appliance (please do not be so foolish to believe I think they are on the same plane, get a sense of humour) will never completely disappear. Unless, of course, we let them fade away. There, how’s that? Place the burden of disappearance on our frail and fragile memory.

So be it.

Hey Alan, I am going to take my grandsons – yes I have grandchildren (do you?) – to the zoo this Thursday. Hope to see you there.

 

G. David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash and Working Out Of the Book, and is currently a volunteer at the Cincinnati J Meals on Wheels. His latest book is Shards and Verse (2011, Publish America).

 

Tags

deathfriendsG David Schwartzlossloveopen letter

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleMusic as Social Change
Next articleCredentials of a Critic

You may also like

A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia

Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan

Nature and Self

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Carriage

“It always strikes her as a little odd, when she waits in line for coffee or stands at the bus stop.” Story of the Week (September 9), by Leigh Fisher.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Of God-Trees

"Every time I shave, just above the legs,/ and reach the protruding bones/.... I, again/ hear the whistling of the...

Close