It's such a dreary, rainy, raw day. I love these kinds of days usually, though--once in a while, anyway--because I can snuggle up with Michael and Alex and Mojo and my tea and my books and a sweater and all is right with the world.
But today--maybe because of the impending holidays? A dream I had that's still lingering and lurking below the surface?--I feel like I am beating off demons with a stick. The demons are the ones that have hounded me for as long as I can remember: Loss. Grief. Longing. They're always there. Always, always there. No respite, no letup. But sometimes, they hang out in the background, to give me a little breather. Not today.
It smells like Woodstock up here today; that rustic mountain firewood smell is in the air, Thanksgiving is around the corner, and so many of my loves are cold and alone in the ground. I should think of them sitting on clouds in Heaven, right? Smiling, plucking harps, singing with choruses of angels. But no, I am smelling the Frankincense, the church, the stench of roses mixing with formaldehyde. Kissing the stone-cold foreheads one last time, praying they can feel me, knowing they can't. Thanking everyone for coming. And seeing the freshly delved "resting places," taking a peek down to see just how deep they will go. How deep, all alone, they will go. Shuddering, bargaining with God not to make them go there.
How could Edvard Munch have known exactly how I feel?
I can't do the euphemisms today. The imagery is not working. I know the truth, and the truth is fucked up.
Who should I cry for today? Who should my heart ache for most today? They're always there, all of them, breaking my heart, but sometimes, often, it is Mom who holds the top spot, Mom in her cozy pink terrycloth robe, smiling and holding out her arms for me. Sometimes it's Dad in his powder-blue sweater, waving goodbye at the screen door. Sometimes I see my Rachel in her little white outfit and her pink baby blanket. One day it's Greg in his work boots and flannel shirt. Another day it's Rick with his sweet, hearty laugh.
Today, it's everybody, all at once, and it's making my mind hurt, my body sore, but I know this too shall pass--it always does, though for just a few moments or hours. It comes and goes in waves of varying intensity. Some days, though not usually, it is a ripple. Today it is a tidal wave.
So I think I'll go hug my son. I know there's a God because he made Michael and Alex.
But today--maybe because of the impending holidays? A dream I had that's still lingering and lurking below the surface?--I feel like I am beating off demons with a stick. The demons are the ones that have hounded me for as long as I can remember: Loss. Grief. Longing. They're always there. Always, always there. No respite, no letup. But sometimes, they hang out in the background, to give me a little breather. Not today.
It smells like Woodstock up here today; that rustic mountain firewood smell is in the air, Thanksgiving is around the corner, and so many of my loves are cold and alone in the ground. I should think of them sitting on clouds in Heaven, right? Smiling, plucking harps, singing with choruses of angels. But no, I am smelling the Frankincense, the church, the stench of roses mixing with formaldehyde. Kissing the stone-cold foreheads one last time, praying they can feel me, knowing they can't. Thanking everyone for coming. And seeing the freshly delved "resting places," taking a peek down to see just how deep they will go. How deep, all alone, they will go. Shuddering, bargaining with God not to make them go there.
How could Edvard Munch have known exactly how I feel?
I can't do the euphemisms today. The imagery is not working. I know the truth, and the truth is fucked up.
Who should I cry for today? Who should my heart ache for most today? They're always there, all of them, breaking my heart, but sometimes, often, it is Mom who holds the top spot, Mom in her cozy pink terrycloth robe, smiling and holding out her arms for me. Sometimes it's Dad in his powder-blue sweater, waving goodbye at the screen door. Sometimes I see my Rachel in her little white outfit and her pink baby blanket. One day it's Greg in his work boots and flannel shirt. Another day it's Rick with his sweet, hearty laugh.
Today, it's everybody, all at once, and it's making my mind hurt, my body sore, but I know this too shall pass--it always does, though for just a few moments or hours. It comes and goes in waves of varying intensity. Some days, though not usually, it is a ripple. Today it is a tidal wave.
So I think I'll go hug my son. I know there's a God because he made Michael and Alex.
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2 comments:
I recently had a long conversation with a dear friend (who also happens to be my cousin) and we were having one of those very, very deep conversations - and she asked me why I'd never seemed to grieve my dad's death. It really shocked me to know that she thought that way (it also upset me a great deal, as a matter of fact)And all along I thought people's thoughts about me were probably more like "why can't you get over losing your dad - it's been 40 years, woman!" Everyone grieves differently. Obviously.
Actually I was REALLY writing to agree with you that the gravesite - and that big old hole deep, deep in the ground, is what did me in. Does me in every time. Still. And damnit, I still grieve!! Guess I'm just one hell of an actress.
Gayle--
As you said, everyone grieves differently. I think you are absolutely right. It is a very personal thing. And sometimes, the same person may grieve for different people differently--or may grieve one way at one point in his or her life, and another way at another point. I've been through all of those.
Some days I am sad, somedays mad, some days a combination of both. Sometimes, the grief is self-pitying, i.e., me missing them because they're gone. Sometimes it is grief for them because of what they are missing.
I know some people in my life think perhaps I should have "gotten over" some of the grief. But the deeper you love, the deeper you grieve, whether or not you "show" it. There are lots of people who shed tears publicly and who really are not grieving, and vice versa.
People who have not been through intense loss, or multiple loss, may not always realize that because you smile or are not walking the hills in a long black veil does not mean you're not grieving. And, to be blunt, people who have not been in another person's shoes should not judge because, to go back once again to Phil Ochs, "there but for fortune..."
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