Alle Jahre wieder
I never know what to expect from Monshu's yortsayt. Sometimes I think about preemptively taking the day off, but with COVID this year I was worried that would just give me more time to mope and so I was better off working. But my body had other plans: whether because of the added anxiety of hosting the association's first virtual annual meeting or what, my GERD was acting up something awful last night and I slept so poorly I determined that without taking the morning off to sleep in I wouldn't be able to function, so that's what I did.
Did it work? Well enough. Now it's evening, clintswan is off at the hardware store to get a replacement valve for the drippy faucet I complained about and his spendy light display is cycling in the dining room windows. I've got trivia tonight. Before that I should finish up an application for a work committee. Meanwhile I'm still trying to get a handle on what I'm feeling. It's not an intense grief, but it is a sense of weight, of a presence that is not a presence, of dislocation and bewilderment. Honestly, it's not that much different from many other days in this fucked-up doozy of a year but I guess because of the number on the calendar I think about it differently.
I considered asking the flatmate to take me to the scattering site but ultimately demurred. I think retreating to the library, lighting some incense and reciting the Heart Sutra will be enough. I do hope Mozhu or my sister or someone remembers to check on me--not so much because I think I need it but I like the thought that the Old Man is still in their memories.
Speaking of memories, I had an odd encountre over the weekend. Shortly after Monshu's obituary was published, I got a Facebook message from someone I'd never met offering sympathy and contact. I didn't really know what to make of it at the time, said something vague about keeping the offer in mind, and then didn't think about it again for nearly four years. Then some day last week I was looking at the list of active friends on Messenger, saw a name I didn't recognise, and perused our correspondence. It was brief: that offer, my polite acknowledgment, and then nothing more.
Sunday I called. We turned out to have a connexion after all, as he's a PhD student at UW-Milwaukee, where a friend teaches. Knowing he's a historian actually made the initial contact less creepy since (as I put it and he agreed), "Stalking dead people is what you do." We chatted for quite a bit about his programme and his interests and his circuitous Laufbahn and I introduced the topic of my dead husband by telling him I saw parallels in some of their choices. "I wasn't sure if you were comfortable talking about him." Bless your heart, hon, but there's almost no one I'd rather talk about.
Did it work? Well enough. Now it's evening, clintswan is off at the hardware store to get a replacement valve for the drippy faucet I complained about and his spendy light display is cycling in the dining room windows. I've got trivia tonight. Before that I should finish up an application for a work committee. Meanwhile I'm still trying to get a handle on what I'm feeling. It's not an intense grief, but it is a sense of weight, of a presence that is not a presence, of dislocation and bewilderment. Honestly, it's not that much different from many other days in this fucked-up doozy of a year but I guess because of the number on the calendar I think about it differently.
I considered asking the flatmate to take me to the scattering site but ultimately demurred. I think retreating to the library, lighting some incense and reciting the Heart Sutra will be enough. I do hope Mozhu or my sister or someone remembers to check on me--not so much because I think I need it but I like the thought that the Old Man is still in their memories.
Speaking of memories, I had an odd encountre over the weekend. Shortly after Monshu's obituary was published, I got a Facebook message from someone I'd never met offering sympathy and contact. I didn't really know what to make of it at the time, said something vague about keeping the offer in mind, and then didn't think about it again for nearly four years. Then some day last week I was looking at the list of active friends on Messenger, saw a name I didn't recognise, and perused our correspondence. It was brief: that offer, my polite acknowledgment, and then nothing more.
Sunday I called. We turned out to have a connexion after all, as he's a PhD student at UW-Milwaukee, where a friend teaches. Knowing he's a historian actually made the initial contact less creepy since (as I put it and he agreed), "Stalking dead people is what you do." We chatted for quite a bit about his programme and his interests and his circuitous Laufbahn and I introduced the topic of my dead husband by telling him I saw parallels in some of their choices. "I wasn't sure if you were comfortable talking about him." Bless your heart, hon, but there's almost no one I'd rather talk about.