So many wonderful things happen in a day.
I take a nice long walk; I am fluid. I stretch, I work, I buy a new book (or 20). I feel the soft rub of a scarf as I wind it around my neck; I am warm. I drink fresh, gritty, strong dandelion tea in a ceramic mug with my friend Whit, and feel so so proud of her for putting her work up online; I am inspired. I eat delicious food my mother has cooked in her natural foods class; I am nourished. I make plans for the weekend, the month, the year; I am optimistic.
So many wonderful things, simple things, joyful precious things for which I am grateful. But — all it takes,
all it takes,
is one slip of ribbon, one corner of a Christmas card, a mind’s glance to imagine what Tuesday will be like, and my mind fogs over. Thinking of Christmas without my brother, I cannot remember what I’ve been doing for the past week, where my body has been traveling since Thanksgiving. I keep picturing the hole that will be un-sitting at the table as we eat Christmas toast, the mug that will be unused, unfilled with coffee, an inverted drink; the tree we did not get, un-smelled by nostrils taller than I.
* * *
My parents and I went to Hospice. We met with a woman who surveyed the forms we filled out and hummed little sighing condolences as her eyebrows cradled her hairline. “That must be hard. Yeah. So how are you doing? Yeah. Oh, I bet you miss him? Yeah. Yeah, that must be hard.”
She made me feel thick and stoic. Her sympathies were so soft in my ears my brain convinced me I was Russian and without the ability to cry. I felt made out of clay.
She spoke to each of us, one at a time, asking us questions of my brother’s passing, our experience with loss, inquired about how we were “holding up.”
She showed us a chart, with the Seven Stages of Grief, and then a timeline of a possible experience with the loss. She used her pointer finger to spiral around the chart, indicating where we were now, where we’d be in three months, six months, one year.
“Shock can last up to three months. Deep grief usually doesn’t set in until 3-6 months.”
I suddenly felt like we were acting. My dad would smile knowingly at everything said, without dialogue. My mom would tenderly cradle her hands, letting a tear slip out every 4 lines. The Hospice worker, in character, would coo and smile, wince and sigh. That left my role, which was to deliver every line with regret and optimism, filling the big picture with a story everyone could wrap their arms around and cradle, like a newborn, helpless with potential.
* * *
I just now finished wrapping presents. My extended family agreed on no gifts this year, but my parents, sister-in-law and I all agreed that we needed something with a goddam bow on it.
Our “Christmas tree” is a plant two fee tall, but hell if it’s not gonna have some gifts under it.
The problem is, none of us want anything, and none of our brains work well enough to think of ideas, let alone remember how to drive a car.
[Family present spoiler warning!] For my mom, I wrapped up a book she ordered and paid for from Amazon. My dad is getting a pair of wiper blades. My sister-in-law? A foam roller. And her brother, who is visiting from Japan, gets a basketball. For myself, I spent $250 on used poetry books, despite the fact that I’ll have a net income of $50 for December. I’m putting a tag on the top of the brown paper bag that will wrap the books, reading:
“To: Shannon | From: Santa | When trying to fill a void, better books than any other addiction.”
That Santa is one smart and generous man.
