Hallelujah

I heard there was a secret chord
That david played and it pleased the lord
But you don't really care for music, do you
Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah ....

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah .... .

Baby i've been here before
I've seen this room and i've walked this floor
I used to live alone before i knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah ....

Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you
But remember when i moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah

Well, maybe there's a god above
But all i've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah ....

I've listened to this song about five times today, as well as about ten times over the past few days. It keeps repeating itself over and over in my head, causes me to sing softly as I walk down the sidewalk. It tugs at my heart, drawing out this deep...longing, in me. I think its partly the deep longing in his voice, as well as part of my own longing for something....deep. Something meaningful, and worthy. Worthy of what? I don't know. Worthy of...life? Of a story? Maybe I just want something to mean something to me so deeply it can move me to tears.

I haven't cried in years. Not really cried, I mean. I've let a tear or two fall. I remember the exact moment the last time I really cried was. I was standing at my Great-grandmother's grave, in Germany. We Germans have beautiful cemetaries, because we believe that it is a sign of respect for the living to care for the final resting place of the dead. My Great-Uncle had brought us there, my Grandmother, brother, and I. He had a little gardening kit with him: a brush to clean the dirt off the gravestone (both my great-grandmother and my great-grandfather are buried there.) It's labeled "Familie Schuber" and has their names underneath, "Hans Jakob" along with the date of his death (1987, the exact date I can't remember right now.) and "Leni Babette" and the date of her death (Mai 1999). We had stopped at the gate to buy flowers. I had gotten roses. She loved gardening and birds...and the only flower left in her garden when she died was a single, perfect rose. We approached the grave, and I set down the flowers and backed away, watching as my Grandmother took the kit from her brother and started cleaning off the grave. It looked so small. Thats when it hit me...she was gone. No matter that it had been four, five years since I had stood in the same spot at her funeral. At that point, watching my Grandmother murmur in German to the grave, I remember falling apart. I turned and ran from that god-awful spot, from those god-awful names on that slab of marble.
Somehow I ended up at the small chapel in the cemetary that her funeral was at, and by that time, my Grandmother had caught up with me, and I sobbed into her shirt for a good twenty minutes. She was gone. My Memie was gone. I would never hear her say "Ach, meine schatze." (Oh, my darling.) I would never try to talk to her in my broken german, and her to me in her broken english. We'd never go to the Gardens again, lamenting the fact that she wore high-heels on the gravel paths. We'd never have tea in the afternoons with bread with butter and honey drizzled on it.

After that cry in the cemetary...nothing made me cry. It was as if my tears were hers and hers only.

For a long time I couldn't have a picture of her in my room. I counldn't stand the thought of waking up in the morning and being reminded of her not being there. But...this summer, I found a picture of her in an album of my grandmother's. She's smiling, drinking tea, and she has her big white clip on earrings on that always made us giggle. She's happy.

I asked my grandmother for it, and I put it in a frame. She's sitting on my bookshelf, now. In front of her is a small cast-iron bird that I found at Target.

I'll never fully get over her death. I have a feeling I'll tear up everytime I think of her for a while.

At home I have her pearls she wore at her wedding. I'll wear them at my wedding, so I know a piece of her is with me. I'll wear them at my children's weddings, my brother's wedding, and my cousin's wedding so that she can be there for those as well.