 |
| Not the Saturday we wanted, but the Saturday we needed. |
It’s constant and relatable across generations.
Eventually the current thing slides beneath the waves, temporarily out of sight—but never really out of mind. And soon we’re grieving some new thing, or maybe resurfacing the old thing, or maybe all the things all at once all the time.
Sometimes it’s like a light breeze barely moving a translucent curtain at the kitchen window.
Other times it’s a thousand firehoses in the chest that you drag yourself up from, a couple miles down the road.
It’s funny! You can’t stop laughing!
It’s not funny. You can’t complete a simple task you’ve done a million times, before the grief thing happened.
Eventually the current thing slides beneath the waves, temporarily out of sight—but never really out of mind. And soon we’re grieving some new thing, or maybe resurfacing the old thing, or maybe all the things all at once all the time.
Sometimes it’s like a light breeze barely moving a translucent curtain at the kitchen window.
Other times it’s a thousand firehoses in the chest that you drag yourself up from, a couple miles down the road.
It’s funny! You can’t stop laughing!
It’s not funny. You can’t complete a simple task you’ve done a million times, before the grief thing happened.
***
The dark humor is never far from the surface.
OFFICER (slightly bored): “Gentlemen, can I ask what you’re doing?”
BROTHER 1: “Of course—we’re spreading our mom’s ashes.”
OFFICER: …
BROTHER 2 (helpfully): “Human remains…”
OFFICER (no longer bored): “This is a kids’ baseball field!!”
BROTHER 1: “Exactly! See, our mom spent a lot of time watching us play baseball when we were growing up…”
BROTHER 2: “…so we thought this would be the perfect place. Right?”
(they nod and smile together)*
***
I delivered a eulogy of sorts recently, something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do.
The rehearsals didn’t go the way I wanted, which is to say I couldn’t get through most of them without crying.
Public speaking is hard for me. Public crying, even more so.
Maybe it's because I’m of a certain age when boys were gently discouraged from such behavior.
ADULT ROLE MODEL: “Stuff that trauma way down, kid, and NEVER circle back to process it. Get it? Got it? Good. Boys, what do we have to say to little Mortimer, here?”
BOYS: “Crybaby! CRYbaby! CRYBABY! CRYBABY!”
(they turn their backs and walk away laughing—fade to black)
***
So, I may have had some latent anxiety about the eulogy.
Regardless, Saturday afternoon arrived, as afternoons indifferently do, and the time to speak was upon me.
Predictably, the microphone and the sound system and the “AV technician” conspired against me—I would be required to project my own voice across the room.
I teed up my speech, took a deeply shaky breath, and…nailed it.
An amusing anecdote early on got a laugh from the gathering—evidently all the encouragement I needed.
I gestured at people and props at appropriate times, emphasized the correct words in most of the sentences, and had just one wavering moment, right near the end.
I paused, took another breath, and pushed through.
People clapped. I closed the laptop, smiled a small, grateful smile, and looked at the tops of my shoes. Always the kid looking for approval.
***
My brother got up next and delivered a moving soliloquy—during which he cried.
My dad got up and delivered a few halting words of gratitude. He cried.
Others in the audience got up and spoke extemporaneously and beautifully. Most of them cried.
And yet nobody laughed or called them crybabies.
What the hell.
***
Text from daughter, on her way to the airport afterward: “I love you buddy!!!”
Me: (sobs)
***
Grieving and healing are little goblins that happen at their own chaotic, non-linear pace.
Learning and unlearning, apparently, are better angels…that happen when we’re ready for them to.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.
***
The dark humor is never far from the surface.
OFFICER (slightly bored): “Gentlemen, can I ask what you’re doing?”
BROTHER 1: “Of course—we’re spreading our mom’s ashes.”
OFFICER: …
BROTHER 2 (helpfully): “Human remains…”
OFFICER (no longer bored): “This is a kids’ baseball field!!”
BROTHER 1: “Exactly! See, our mom spent a lot of time watching us play baseball when we were growing up…”
BROTHER 2: “…so we thought this would be the perfect place. Right?”
(they nod and smile together)*
***
I delivered a eulogy of sorts recently, something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do.
The rehearsals didn’t go the way I wanted, which is to say I couldn’t get through most of them without crying.
Public speaking is hard for me. Public crying, even more so.
Maybe it's because I’m of a certain age when boys were gently discouraged from such behavior.
ADULT ROLE MODEL: “Stuff that trauma way down, kid, and NEVER circle back to process it. Get it? Got it? Good. Boys, what do we have to say to little Mortimer, here?”
BOYS: “Crybaby! CRYbaby! CRYBABY! CRYBABY!”
(they turn their backs and walk away laughing—fade to black)
***
So, I may have had some latent anxiety about the eulogy.
Regardless, Saturday afternoon arrived, as afternoons indifferently do, and the time to speak was upon me.
Predictably, the microphone and the sound system and the “AV technician” conspired against me—I would be required to project my own voice across the room.
I teed up my speech, took a deeply shaky breath, and…nailed it.
An amusing anecdote early on got a laugh from the gathering—evidently all the encouragement I needed.
I gestured at people and props at appropriate times, emphasized the correct words in most of the sentences, and had just one wavering moment, right near the end.
I paused, took another breath, and pushed through.
People clapped. I closed the laptop, smiled a small, grateful smile, and looked at the tops of my shoes. Always the kid looking for approval.
***
My brother got up next and delivered a moving soliloquy—during which he cried.
My dad got up and delivered a few halting words of gratitude. He cried.
Others in the audience got up and spoke extemporaneously and beautifully. Most of them cried.
And yet nobody laughed or called them crybabies.
What the hell.
***
Text from daughter, on her way to the airport afterward: “I love you buddy!!!”
Me: (sobs)
***
Grieving and healing are little goblins that happen at their own chaotic, non-linear pace.
Learning and unlearning, apparently, are better angels…that happen when we’re ready for them to.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.
***
Here's to you, ol' skinny Dennis
The only one I think I will miss
I can hear your basement singing
Sweet and low like a gift you're bringing
Play it for me one more time now
Got to give it all we can now
I believe every word you're saying
Just keep on, keep on playing
Sweet and low like a gift you're bringing
Play it for me one more time now
Got to give it all we can now
I believe every word you're saying
Just keep on, keep on playing
—Guy Clark, L.A. Freeway
***
(*fictional conversation that never happened, just to be clear)
