grief

A Scrapbook Tree

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

I’ve been standing here for 5 or 6 years.  She can’t bear to take me down, but she doesn’t spend any time in this room either.  She’s always called me a scrapbook tree.  Every ornament is a memory of a person, place, or thing.  There is a seahorse to commemorate her first trip back to the beach since 1980.  There is a graduation cap with a tassel to recognize the adventure that completing her degree in her 40s was.

There is a heart with a pink ribbon for the second best friend who died.  Oddly there is not one for the first best friend.  I wonder when that will occur to her.  There is a sunflower for the third and best best friend who died.

Her dad is well represented – a miniature Marine in dress blues as well as a “lid” with the Marine Corps insignia on it.  There is not an ornament for her grandchild.  She has bought them, but they lay in boxes waiting for her energy and desire to return.  She also has a COVID mask at the ready to remember the pandemic and resultant case of long COVID.

Most years, I am adored and celebrated.  She takes photo after photo.  She’s very proud of me. 

But she’s grieving.  Still the best friend, still the father, still her lover.  She is grieving the circumstances surrounding her only grandchild.  She is grieving her lost youth.  She is grieving her mother’s dementia.  She is grieving her physical decimation that COVID wrought in her body.

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Donnie’s Wake

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Donnie talked about Pocahontas County all the time. Camping there. I wasn’t interested. We were neck deep in converting the barn and my whole life was a primitive camping trip. I didn’t think I needed to wander into the Wild and Wonderful to experience more awkward cooking attempts and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. My life was full of such.

She continued to wax poetic. Lyrical, an ode to the Williams River and I told her I was sure it was beautiful. But declined.

And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then it metastasized before we were even able to process the news.

She wanted a last trip to the river. And we agreed to go along.

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Our wa is disturbed

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Today, my wa is disturbed. Our wa is disturbed.

Wa? Wa is a Japanese term the meaning of which is morphing here lately, but originally it meant harmony or peaceful unity.  It applies to personal relationships, living environments, and even corporate boardrooms. It also meant peaceful community over individuality. It’s a strange concept for westerners to grasp especially those of us in the cult of individuality. 

Which I am.

I am all about the individual.

But I am also all about harmony between individuals. 

I made the mistake of turning on the news last Friday evening. Memphis Police released the Tyree Nichols video. I only caught the tail end of it, but it was enough to bring tears.

I am in a foul mood. 

The world, this country, seems to get uglier and uglier. I posted on Facebook a meme I made.  A few people liked it. One person commented. Nobody shared it.

Nobody.

I am so tired of hearing:

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just… I don’t understand why she was wearing… I don’t understand why they won’t just fix their own country…”

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My Grief Lives in My Lungs

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Grief lives in my lungs.  My lungs temper my grief – keep me upright, keep me alive, keep breathing…putting one foot in front of the other.  Grief lives in my lungs.

I had quit smoking in the months before my dad died.  I had tried so many times to quit smoking and this time seemed to be working.  Oh sure, I had cravings, but I was managing them. 

My mother called, “Come quick. It’s an emergency.”  Part of me knew.  I stopped breathing.

And then, I went tearing down the hill after putting shoes on.  Normally I would have gone barefoot. I don’t know why the shoes. In case we had to go to the hospital? Part of me knew.

I was breathing hard by the time I got to the house. Shallow, unsatisfying breaths.  My father dead on the floor.  I quickly knelt and started chest compressions, went to blow air in his mouth.  Cold.  He was cold.

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