Sometimes his gone-ness hits me square in the heart – it’s a surprise attack of alone-ness, and I am done. Done in. Un-done. Done of it. I’m having one of those days today. I’m doing my best to stay busy and focused, to stay positive- but I am failing miserably. Grief is bullshit – I am not a fan.
I’m probably suffering an aftershock – it was his birthday this past week, he would have turned sixty-four. Sixty-four. He has already missed so much and I have missed him so much. So much.
My daughters and I took a drive to the mountain to mark the day. It was a lovely drive – winding roads, sun-dappled pavement – a beautiful fall day. We talked and laughed and remembered as we instinctively leaned into curves – this was a road well traveled back in the day. The remembering felt good. We made some of our best memories on this mountain.
We didn’t do much talking after we closed the car doors and started toward the place where we scattered his ashes last year. The trail and the day felt strangely familiar and somehow holy, no words were required to share our thoughts. The grief between us is seasoned – gone are the sharp corners and defined lines. Silence blurred the boundaries of yesterday and I felt myself fall into something akin to meditation. Memories. So many memories. Noisy, happy memories.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinked away the tears readying to fall and instead leaned into the echo of long ago laughter. I was faced with a decision – I could turn the mountain into one of grief and see it as a reminder of what is sprinkled among the heather or I could listen beyond the grief. I could actually listen to the past, to the those happy memories and know this mountain is the perfect place to do the remembering.
I think today has reminded me that I’m never going to be done of the grief but it has also reminded me that I will never be done of the remembering either.
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