This is the second-to-last prompt for a 30-day grief writing course I've been taking. In this prompt we're asked to consider what it means to do all of this writing as a result of the real fact: "That the words you form are not just any words, they are words that come from the deepest wound. They grow out of the reality of death." And this is not just any story. This is the story with death at the core of it. How do we bow with respect to that, as Megan says? What is the story of the story we're in?
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This is not just any story.
This is the story of boy meets girl.
Strike that.
This is the story of girl
traveling halfway across the globe
and meeting the love of her life.
This is the story of boy
traveling the same distance
to find her and do the same.
Strike that.
This is not just any story.
This is a story of boy meets girl.
This is the story of their love,
seen by everyone. This is the story.
1.5 years later boy spirals out.
Girl tries to help.
Girl steps back.
It worsens the matter.
Boy climbs out of a window
and falls. Three days later, he dies.
Is that the story?
Strike that.
How can I possibly unpack
a story as complex as this?
As rich as this?
How can I even paint a picture
of a love like this? Impossible.
Here is the haystack of your love.
Please, please, find this particular
needle and describe it for everyone.
I do my best.
I've done my best.
Do you see the warmth of this man
that I loved? Through my words,
have you fallen in love with him, too?
If so, I have told the story.
Do you feel how I was swept up in
his goodness? How we held each other
beneath every full moon? Do you feel
like you were there with us?
If so, I have told the story.
Do you delight in all things that made
this man real? Can you picture him?
Can you hear his words? Can you see
him holding hands across the table from
me, telling me "You are the you of my words"
and did you not wish for that love to
be sustained? Did you wish that for me?
For him?
If so, I have told the story.
Did you feel- really feel- deep in your gut
the way it ripped me to pieces to draw the line?
Did you get hit with blasts of my self-doubt?
Can you imagine what it is to back away from
your love in the hopes that he will get well?
Did you feel my fear in doing so?
Do you wish to rewind time and see if
there could have been another outcome?
Do you wonder if I loved enough?
If so, I have told the story.
Do you feel like you were there
when I got the call? Through my words,
were you there in those first few days in the hospital?
Were you awaiting the arrival of his mum and dad?
Could you feel his warmth beneath that hospital sheet
and were you with me when I remembered how very
well I knew that body? His body? Could you feel
his lips beneath mine? Feel his face below my flat
palms? Could you hear me speaking to him?
My love. I am here. I am so sorry. I am here.
If so, I have told the story.
Have you ridden the waves with me?
Felt the power of suddenly going under,
being tossed this way and that, without breath?
Finally surfacing and having little strength
to take those small few steps to shore?
Have you imagined missing Gareth in
the deepest way possible? Have you felt
the ache of this? Have my own words
stirred up in you the losses you, too,
have experienced? Do you long for someone?
If so, I have told the story.
Have I given you hope? Do you believe
that the darkest times of grief are puctuated
by moments of lightness? Of grace?
Do you believe grace is there?
Can you feel my joy in these lighter times
and have you taken those deep breaths with me,
looked up to the heavens, and given thanks
for the momentary release from pain?
If so, I have told the story.
I want to tell this story, the story I'm in.
I need to tell it.
It is not just any story, this one.
It is the story of chance. Of passion.
Of deep understanding and deeper joy.
It is the story of risk. Of health and illness.
It is the story of the stories that lie underneath
what we see and what we know. It is the
story of connections and trusting God.
It is the story of death. Of loss. Of gripping
tightly and of letting go. It is the story of my love.
It is the story I'm in.
And it's not just any story.
Yes, you have told the story. Yes, I do see the warmth of this man that you have described and have fallen in love with him, too. I also see, and understand, how it ripped you to pieces to draw a line, only to have your love ripped away from you. You have a story to tell, it has touched and benefited me and I hope, some day, you will share this publicly in a book to benefit others.
ReplyDeleteMental illness used to be referred to as fighting one's demons. Your love and my daughter fought those demons and were overcome by those demons. We can hope what comes from these tragedies are our efforts and the efforts of others like us for destigmatization of mental illness so our loved ones can reach out at earlier ages, and for increased resources to help them, worlwide. We can hope that their joys and contributions to our lives and the lives of others will continue to live on in how we live our lives.
this rocks.
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