The naked statue

I can trace my childhood through the photos on the wall. Did I really have that terrible haircut? What was I thinking? Memories flood back to me as I walk through my grandmother’s small house in Lambertville, NJ. It is the last time I will be there.

The family has gathered for an informal memorial service. She passed away three weeks ago. Chairs are set up in the back yard, near the ping-pong table, first in rows, but then decided too official and changed to a large semi-circle.

Programs are printed and the service has the feel of a family talent show. My uncle Greg and cousin Jacob play the guitar and sing; I read my column; my dad tells a few stories. Most everyone takes a turn at the microphone to say or read something.

There are a few tears, but the newest addition to the family, Mara, runs through the middle of the circle providing the perfect amount of comic relief. My grandmother would have absolutely loved it. It was right up her alley.

I remember the statue as soon as I see it. It used to sit high and naked on a shelf in my grandparents’ house on Route 97 in Narrowsburg, NY. When they moved to Florida, the statue was on the mantel; here it’s low on a shelf.

It is yellowed by age and stands about 10 inches tall and slightly hunched over. It’s a small version of a famous statue of a Greek athlete and depicts a man about to throw a discus.

I’m not savvy enough to know what kind of material it is made out of. Ivory maybe?

He holds the discus with his right hand, his left bent over and resting on his knee. One foot in front of the other, he is completely naked, in perfect anatomical proportions. It’s a strange pose, but very powerful. Looking at it, you might expect him to at some point throw the discus. But he never does. Obviously.

The younger version of myself in the house on Route 97 was made very uncomfortable by the statue. I think it was probably the combination of the naked man and the low angle that I saw it from; I was shorter then and it was on a tall shelf. I practically had to look straight up and would be forced to stare directly into his unmentionables.

I remember very clearly wanting to make clothes for it. For some reason I imagined the clothes would not be cloth but instead some sort of hard material that would snap in place around him, covering his glistening backside.

My grandmother’s death has affected me in an interesting way. I find myself a lot less sad than I expected to be. It’s easy to rationalize it to myself. She was very old. She was ready. These are all true things.

The grandmother that I knew recently was not the one that I choose to remember. So in a lot of ways she had been fading away slowly rather than disappearing suddenly.

I’ve been thinking a lot about something that my cousin Aimee talked about when she took her turn at the microphone. The physical place of grandma’s house is gone.

There are memories that are based almost solely on objects themselves. She long since moved out of the house where I knew her the best. But the objects contain in them memories. Memories of family, memories of thoughts, experiences, wonderful and warm memories. They are famous for what they make me recall, recognizable but not remembered if they aren’t present.

It’s like a song whose words you know when it’s playing. Without the music there are bits and pieces. But with it everything comes back. There is a lot of music playing as I walk through the house to get my jacket and leave.

Saying my goodbyes to my family, I was asked if I wanted to take any of Grandma’s things as a sentimental reminder. I glanced around the house slowly until my eyes rested on the statue.

Riding home in the car, the statue sitting on the seat to my left, I wondered what I would do with it. All of a sudden it seemed a very odd addition to my apartment. Certainly something that requires an explanation. Where would I put it? Did I even like it?

The answer hit me as soon as I walked into my room.

It belongs on shelf high above. I want to stare straight up at it. It’s music I will enjoy listening to and an explanation that I will enjoy giving.

Zachary Stuart-Pontier