grief

Mourning Doves

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What stage of grief is it when mourning doves are cooing and the soft morning air carries the sound to me in my bed. That sound. What stage of grief is that sound?

Photo by Stefan Gogov on Unsplash

When I was twelve, my mom sent me to the store for lettuce. I can’t remember why, but I didn’t ride my bike. It was six blocks. And very hot. The heat surprised me. It was crystal clear and not humid, but the heat was oppressive. It lay on my body like a boulder. I pretended I was trekking through the desert in search of the Holy Grail. In my mind, so very fertile in those days, I saw myself on my knees croaking, “Water, water.” It was so hot.

I bought the head of lettuce and the bag boy put it in a full-size, brown paper bag. The sweat of my hands left large blotches on the paper. It seemed much too large. He embarrassed me when he said, “Can I carry that to your car, ma’am?” He did it just to be mean. I flushed, and he and the cashier laughed. I knew them both from the school bus – they were two of the high school kids that picked on the rest of us.

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If my grief. . .

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If my grief were a book, it would be Dickens. Large, expansive, serialized.  My grief provokes tears, provokes laughter.  Marvels at the absurdity of life.  Goes on and on.  Driven by words.  And memories.  Little action and lots of description. 

If my grief were a touch, it would be the grip of an infant on his mother’s thumb.  Hanging on, but oblivious to the need to do so. A reflex of sorts. Never wondering why.

If my grief were a bowl, it would be a large ceramic bowl used to make bread.  Something that can hold the small bit of yeast and water and hold the enormous amounts of flour.  Accommodate the dough and air while holding the temperature steady for the rising.

If my grief were a garden, it would be a cottage garden.  English.  Somewhat of a mess, but breathtaking at its peak.

If my grief were a dog, it would be a dachshund.  Stubborn, hard to train, following me everywhere.  Sweet in its devotion. Sincere in its love.

If my grief were a pair of glasses, it would be bifocals with lines, heavy black frames, held together with super glue, and a Band-Aid.

If my grief were a sunset, it would be the opposite of a Hawaiian one.  The sun would not blaze the sky with color and magnificence to slip into a silver ocean turning the sky a vivid dark blue.  Oh no.  It would be the sunset of a blizzard in Maine.  Unnoticed for the misery.

If my grief were a door, it would be a revolving one like at the bank.  With muddy footprints and the fingerprints of mourners on the glass.

If my grief were an elevator, it would be out of order.  The door opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, going nowhere.

If my grief were a sports car, it would be a Camaro – mostly ordinary but with a certain touch of pizzazz –like a custom paint job.

If my grief were a person, it would be Cheri and Donnie, Doug and Daddy, Susan and Debbie and Jes.

If my grief were to leave, I think there would remain a hole where it used to be.

My father is a memory.

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Breathe.

Just keep breathing. 

You can do this, you know you can, yes, breathe, in and out…

He was so handsome in his dress blues.  His hat, called a lid, on his chest along with the white gloves.  His sword at his side.  My mother said, “Still my handsome Marine.”

An officer and a gentleman to the end. 

I couldn’t touch him there in the casket.  I just couldn’t.  That other night, he was cold when I began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Cold.  So wrong for him to feel that way.  I realized and quit.  Knowing it hopeless.

My father was always warm, his hugs enveloping me and spreading that warmth until it engulfed us both.  He loved me.  I him. 

And he died.

Suddenly.  It wasn’t expected.  We didn’t see it coming.  He was warm and breathing and then he was cold and still lying on the bathroom floor, lying in the casket in his dress blues.  Hat, gloves, and sword.  And medals.  His medals a mess – we didn’t know how to arrange them.  His Marine friend was too overcome with grief to do it for us.  So they weren’t even pinned on.  They were just sitting there.  Not quite a jumble, but it was as wrong as his death.

Which was also right.  He went out the way he wanted to.  No lingering illness.  No hospital.  Fine and then dead. 

Dead.

My daddy is dead.

I remember the next morning lying on my bed trying to escape the pain.  Trying not to think and finally just sinking into it.  Letting the hot burning grief fill me.  All his warmth was now a blaze of sadness.  Yes, a blaze.  Great leaps of flame touching every part of me.  The little girl who sat on his lap.  The teenager who rolled her eyes.  The bride who took his arm and walked down the aisle.  The new mother who handed him his grandson. The daughter standing by his coffin unwilling to feel that cold again.

All that pain.

Wrapped up tidy for the funeral in dress blues.

An adagio of emotion.  Still, quiet, cold building to the flames and then trailing off.  Dying.  Cold…. A memory. 

My father is a memory. 

My Beloved Sofa, My Beloved Grief

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I have a beloved sofa.  The arms are very high.  I sit sideways with my knees bent and my feet on its newly upholstered surface.  I am wearing the ancient headphones – the curly corded ones that plug into the stereo receiver.  I have on jeans and a black t-shirt.  The lights are off except for the china cabinet.  The flames of a dozen candles also shadow the room.

I have a glass of cool Merlot.  A beautiful glass.  A full-bodied wine.

The Cowboy Junkies are filling my head.  And then AJ Roach.  And then Leonard Cohen.  And Robert Plant and Alison Krauss.  The official mourning albums.  Beautiful music, rich instruments, stunning voices all with an underlying sadness.

I sink into the sofa.  I sink into my grief.  Those four CDs have lived in the player for years now.  The official mourning quartet. 

When sadness hits me, my first instinct is to avoid it.  Being busy.  Being social.  Being this, being that.  But I have learned that sometimes I just need to wallow in it.  Embrace the grief, the pain, the memories.

Eventually, the pain lessens, the memories make me smile and the grief becomes the love I can no longer share. 

When we reach the beauty of grief, I will sometimes play Mozart’s Jupiter.  Waving my hands in the air and conducting the invisible orchestra in my head.  Reveling in the joy of the notes.

Great pain can be beautiful.  A terrible beauty, a stark beauty, film noir.  And then it emerges transformed into a different beauty.  One to wrap my heart in.  Almost a joy to behold.