grief &
My dad passed away on November 14th at about 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I know these specific details because for the last half hour of my drive, I couldn’t stop staring at the clock on my Waze screen. The minutes really did drag by.
As I have already said, I didn't make it in time. He passed moments before I turned into his driveway. I hoped and prayed I would make it but knew it would be a long shot.
My aunt gave me the news, there under a large tree, the engine of my car still making some noises as it came to a stop and began to cool. There, under the tree as my children slowly unfolded themselves from the car and navigated the piles of dead leaves and branches.
There are things about that afternoon which I am sure I will never forget (and yet, we gradually begin to forget them anyway - our memories, it is said, are merely the last time we remembered that moment or object.) I want to put them down, but I am afraid to. I took advantage of my husband’s confessed terrible memory (and perhaps his demons, the thoughts he does not share) to tell him. He closed his eyes against my words and then opened them again, mossy green and wet, to gather me up and weep with me.
And still, a week removed, I do not feel. I didn’t remember to mark the hour yesterday, when it had been a literal seven days since he had been gone from (my) life. Perhaps there’s something to be said that at that moment, I was engaging those activities of life. Specifically, eating and laughing.
I thought that away from his home and his things, I would begin the slow catalogue of feelings and how life is forever different (but guess it’s a "slow catalogue" (in both name and function) because there will always be something to add to the list for as long as I continue to draw breath.) I suppose that in a way, I have been, but it's hard to say.
I just . . . I expected more. At some point in the past few days, I thought to myself, "I grieved the loss of my husband marriage more during our first separation." That loss truly was gut-wrenching and I cried for days. I felt alone and bereft and empty and just, ripped in two. But now? This? There is a subdued nature to my thoughts and when I (again) think about how my dad has been gone from my life/there has been irrevocable change to who I am, there exists a painful raw feeling akin to intense secondhand embarrassment.
It's true, what they say. All of those expressions about taking the time to create a memory, because if you don't, you'll regret it. Coulda shoulda woulda. I didn't make time for longer phone calls and visits. My practicality and desire for neatness have always been at war with my sentimental side, so I didn’t save the birthday or Christmas cards unless they had a note. Now I’m kicking myself. I'm always going to regret that. One because I could have those things to read and reminisce over, and two, for his handwriting. All I've been seeing lately is how large and shaky his penmanship had gotten and how often to he had to write numbers and names so that he didn't forget. In one notebook, there were places where it was obvious that Belinda had been feeding him the answers as he was on the phone. His letters used to be so tiny and precise. I wrote in the same small uppercase as he used for a few years.
Chris helped me pick out a small piece of jewelry to hold some ashes in if I wanted. I had said yes without thinking, but the more I think of it, the more I like the idea. Kinda like when he asked me what stuff of his I'd like and I quick rattled off a few things, but I definitely came home with a lot more than I'd first mentioned. Two flannel shirts, two t-shirts, a Carhartt-style jacket with his name on it from Ring Power, four Spenser For Hire novels, all of his pot, his class ring, a pinkie ring with his initials, his Ring Power time-in-service pendant on a chain, and a gold bracelet of his for Lola. So, a lot. I originally requested his class ring, his Time-in-Service pendant and the books. I guess the more time I spent there, the more things became sentimental. And it was important to Belinda that I have whatever I wanted of his things, since I was his biological daughter (which I think is weird because he legally adopted her kids a few years ago, so that should make everything equal.) I tried to wave that off, but she wouldn't hear it, so.
I understand that this grief is long-lasting, but I thought it would be more intense. Maybe I'm offended because I feel like my dad deserves that. I also know that everyone grieves differently, but this just seems wrong somehow. I guess I'll be exploring more of this as I go along.