Living and Grieving
Although February is considered a month of love, scars still linger in most of us from years prior and sadnesses that are hard if not impossible to let go of. One example brought to mind is of my father. Valentine's day used to be such a fun affair, my younger siblings and myself scrambling to paste paper hearts to the walls and make breakfast together which we could present to her in bed. I miss his presence on holidays, even the silly hallmark holidays such as February fourteenth, and I find myself looping the memories in my head over and over as if in some past tense movie cycle. The thing is, we are human. Our emotions are on such a large spectrum, that it makes sense to experience love and joy and sadness and grief all within the same day, and the same period. Below, I have included a snippet of one of my essays written about my father's passing, entitled, "Good Grief."
"Good Grief”
I sit in the graveyard weeping. where we used to run through the side streets and gardens; I can almost see myself ten years prior, free, a dirt drenched face with no qualms against the adventure that I was faced with. I sit in the graveyard weeping, knowing nothing remains and nothing will ever begin again with the same childlike freeness I held in all of the days before this day.
November hangs heavy over my eyelids. It grows with a fierceness in behind my eyes I cannot seem to shake, when I am dreaming; sleeping; wandering around the shambles of my life around me as they lay. I know nothing except for this barren wasteland of sky, translucent and grey-tinged above me, providing just enough light for me to return home within the hour, if that is what I wish.
I didn’t wish at all, weeping against the small stone tower against my back; I didn’t wish at all.
1.
My father had a smile that could make life’s sharpest blade of disaster appear weak in comparison. His spirit soared in any conversation and with him he brought such a joy I never realized until now; the time when I needed it the most.
I sat at my mother’s desk, in the lightest rays of dawn peeking through the window above me, trying to form the sense of enough words to write a speech to be given at my father’s funeral.
My caffeine drenched veins shook each time I picked up the pen to my left, anything I put down seemed too flexible, unmeaning, the words just recycling around in my head like water washing down a drain. I stood to go make more coffee.
Walking down the hallway, each family framed picture made my knees weak. I had to cup my hands around my eyes in order to keep my mind looking straight ahead. I couldn’t let myself go to that place again. The kitchen looked just as it had the night before; wine glasses half full lounging around every inch of counter space, crackers and bread trays lay heaped in piles of crumbs, hot plates and dishes sat in piles around the sink. People had been passing through as if our house was a hotel. Their stays just weren’t nearly as pleasant. I turned on the coffee pot that was tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, very out of place from where it used to sit. It had been in a box downstairs when I arrived, I hadn’t been here in a while before the accident. I swallowed hard at the thought.
As the coffee pot began to gurgle and steam, I plucked up each wine glass and poured the remaining drinks down the sink. I took the large paper bags that had once been filled with food and appetizers and filled them with the containers of trash and trays of food. I took the bags outside and entered through the kitchen door just as the coffee began drizzling out into the open glass container. I took a large kitchen towel and scrubbed at the countertops, wiped away the crumbs and cleared the dishes sitting all around me like soldiers invading foreign land. When I was finished it was nowhere near clean, though there was a peace about the room that had not been there when I arrived. I lit a candle, poured another mugful of coffee, and slipped out the front door to sit on the concrete front porch steps and watch the morning rise.
A tree grew adjacent to where I sat; a thick squat tree with wicked gnarled branches that stemmed in grooves and vines around the front door. Once we had taken a family picture there, my younger brother and sister looming against the twisting branches, me leaning against the side of the trunk and our parents facing each other. It was a beautiful snapshot.
Birds flitted around the branches with lazy purpose, dwindling against the barely risen sun and chirping their morning songs. Song orange glow poured over the streets in front of me, glinting off of the neighbors' closed windows and reflecting back towards me like a soft spoken gift. A chill pulled through my bones, a mid November dampness hung in the air. A cold I could not escape from. I pulled the oversized sweater I was wearing closer around my body, rocking back and forth and pulling the steaming mug of coffee closer to my face. Tears sprang in my eyes, yet I welcomed them. Tears of a frost bitten morning and exhaustion, so far from those in which I have experienced lately.
I sit in the same space until the sun has grown tall in the sky, stretching out over everything I can see.
A pale wonder of sky breaks through the slight clouds, and I am once again in awe of the morning. If only I could enjoy them again.
A year ago, I could have been in the exact place I was now, only with my father. We could be discussing the world or religion or celebrity gossip, perhaps the same mug clutched in my hands and a glass of Diet Coke in his. I choke at all of the could have’s and what if’s, knowing it only makes everything harder. When someone so special is gone, it’s just so difficult not to miss them in everything you are, at least for a while."
Thank you for reading, and I hope that this week you take time to experience ALL of the emotions that seem to be coming up within your body. Recognize them, feel them, bask in them, or simply: Let them go.
Love,
Court
