The journey of grief is not uniform. Just like there are a million different paths both up and down a mountain, the trek through grief is as unique as the whorls beneath your thumb…but if there is one thing we can all agree on, it's a rocky path. Writing about it, talking about it and pushing myself (gently) to share when I feel the spirit move me is what has helped. Often times a nice calm summer day will be interrupted by a lightning bolt that splits the room in two, and leaves you gasping. They say to pray everytime you are overwhelmed with grief, grateful that you are still connected to this person.
Does it ever change? I suppose only time will tell. Although loss is something that does not go away, it seems to evolve, mold into a different shape and present itself in different ways. I speak to children who lost their parent over 50 years ago and when the tears come, stinging the corner of your eyes, it is as fresh as the moment you first found out. Tears will take on lives of their own and fall just like water from a faucet with a broken tap. You can hold them in, but as water is want to do, it will always find its level and you will want to buy stock in Kleenex brand kleenex…or t.p…heck, whatever's handy.
Although at the time of writing it has been almost three years since my father left this plane, I still, not even four hours ago, had to stop myself from calling his cell phone just to say hi and see how he was doing. Old habits die hard and I don't know if I will ever truly remember that he is not here anymore…at least not anywhere I can reach him via cell. It took me two years to stop paying his cell phone bill. If the computer analyzing his monthly sprint bills had a brain I'm sure it would have thought: “That's funny, no outbound calls, and only inbound calls from a company looking to speak about an extended car warranty.” My Dad's cell phone was a lifeline and I could call it and satisfy some need in a very vague way. The day finally came to cut the cord in both the literal and figurative sense and I sent the D.C. to Sprint and they promptly cancelled the bill.
I thought that doing things like this would somehow speed the grief along but it continues to crawl along going 35 in a 55, both blinkers on, with no intention of moving. I have learned that I can blast my horn, tailgate the sonofagun, or ride shotgun in that pace car, turn on the radio and ease the seat back to take in the views. I've learned that the only way really is through. The odd irony is that I was in a bathroom of a Mexican restaurant in Pasadena when the idea came to me of someday using that phrase as a song title. When I came out of the bathroom and sat down, I joined my Pops, and father and son gnoshed heartily on delicious chips and salsa and aromatic and perfectly cooked pollo asado.
While I have saved many (as in, a lot) of his things, what I have found to be the most comforting is when I see him in the mirror. It's in the way I keep a hundred tabs open on my computer, doodle three dimensional figures when I'm on the phone, enjoy a slice or three of chocolate cake well after the sun has set, and surround myself with exotic essential oils and colognes that remind me of faraway places. When I see myself doing something that he did, or laughing in a way that startles me because it is actually his laugh, I feel tremendous peace and the day doesn't feel as dark as it was.
It's bittersweet that my Dad can't hear all of these new songs but I always think of Andy Grammer's line from his song Spaceship:
"Yeah, it's crazy, 'cause if I'm singing to you
Then my mom up in heaven's probably singing to me, too
Edges of the world makes some damn good music
Gotta close your eyes and listen to it"
I would like to believe, actually believe, that somewhere, somehow, he is hearing these songs that are entirely about him, in full, beautiful surround sound on his cherished stereo system from 1982.
I love you Pops.