That Reprieve

Here is the thing about grief: You are going through your day, working, taking the dog for a walk, deciding on whether to eat salad or a burger for lunch.  Then a song, a memory or a smell hits you. It is not a cataclysmic thing whereby you fall to your knees in pain. It is rather this thing inside that you know might consume you should you let it. So, there are sporadic tears, very silently and quietly present as you go about your day. You feel you must hide these tears, that enough time has passed for the perfunctory time of grief. You ride out the wave and wake for the reprieve. It will come in it’s own time, that reprieve.

Folly Beach

 

The sunrise appeared instantly. Akin to when you are in that twilight sleep then suddenly, for whatever reason, arise, abruptly and fully awake. The horizon over the ocean was the darkest of night, it seemed, enhanced only by the crescent moon shining just over the horizon.  Suddenly, magically, the sky  lightens up, orange, fuchsia, yellow all at once. That sunshine rose, heralding the new day. A sense of hope, I suppose, that all things will be good. After all, orange, fuchsia and yellow could not foretell anything else.

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So, the day arrives and continues to pass either slowly or quickly depending on the tone of the day ahead.

Sunset is like sleep. It happens slowly, then all at once. Like sleep, you wait for the silence, the calmness to come. Deep purple, sky yellow and fuchsia expand over the horizon, deepening with each passing minute. The sunset pulls you in, ushering the end of the day.  Another day closes, beautifully, so beautifully.

 One Bad Day

We all have had those days where we are weary. That day when things have gone wrong and seemingly will not get better. That one bad day.  The thing is, things will get better. It is imperative that one pushes  through to get to the other side. After all, it is just one bad day out of 364 more good days.  It is just one bad day…

Write drunk/edit sober...

 

Ernest Hemingway is quoted as saying, ““Write drunk; edit sober”. I must say that I am aligned to this school of thought. Having one, two, three drinks enables one to be more of oneself. Happiness, sadness, thoughts to forget and thoughts to remember. We ultimately write about what we know and what we have experienced. Is it to purge oneself of these things which have grown inside of us or to prepare oneself of what might become.

I write in the wee hours of “I am sorry,” or “Are you sorry?” time of night. It is when I lie there, unable to sleep despite the third glass of wine. I realize that the only thing which may enable me to sleep is to write. I write to remember.  I write to forget.

Remains

 

My realtor told me that I shouldn’t have any personal belongings visible while showing the house. She said it was too personal and that it didn’t reflect well with buyers who needed, to envision themselves here. I hesitated when packing my personal belongings up.  In particular were the ashes of my son, Quentin, “Q” which were sitting in a coffin like box on my teal credenza in my living room. There was an American flag beside him which was offered to me during his military ceremony.

I didn’t intend to place my son’s remains there on this teal credenza in a shrine-like manner (I told myself it was not healthy to build a shrine to my fallen son). Conflicted, I wrapped his ashes in a soft blanket, gently placing them in a box, clean and not closed in the back of my closet. I knew that I would never forget they were there.  

Admittedly, it seemed banal on some level, as if I were somehow disrespecting my son and my memories of him.  Every night I would remove them. The next day I would gently touch this box where his physical body lay in state. I touched this box once in the morning when I arose and once in the evening before I slept. I touched this box, gently. I touched the box in a tentative manner, willing my son to know how much he is missed; how much he is loved. I do not know how my son would feel about this.  He was practical, pragmatic as am I.

My son has not been buried yet as I have not taken the trip to the Lexington Cemetery in Iowa to do so.  There is some solace and comfort in having him with me in the physical sense. It frightens me to think that he (or his remains) may not be near me when they are buried. How will I be able to touch this box with my son tucked inside if I cannot do so every morning and every night? 

 

Dear Q.