October 2, 2014
It's 12:41 am here in Korea. I've been dicking around on facebook with the intent of writing to today's prompt "any minute." I read and reread the email with the prompt and didn't feel that normal spark to write. And then I realized...I'm just mad. I'm mad that I have to write about this. I'm mad that Gareth is gone. Dead. I'll say it. He is dead. I'm mad that someone posted pictures on facebook titled "This is what happens when we're supposed to be grading papers"- pics of the shirtless boyfriend with playful paint all over his arms, back, and chest. The girlfriend had drawn little vines trailing everywhere and strawberries and messages in Korean. Fuck you both. I'm mad that I'm mad about that. Is there not room in my heart for the joy of others? I'm mad that we're going into fall and no Gareth with his scratchy gray sweater that he wore in the house. Halloween, and no playful Gareth in a cow costume. Thanksgiving, and no traveling with Gareth to have a traditional meal with a group of misplaced expats. My birthday and no Gareth. Christmas and no Gareth. No Gareth. No Gareth. No Gareth. And I'm mad about that.
So, I don't want to write. Grief shows up today like an angry teenager. A sullen, fuck you teenager. How dare anyone be happy. How dare people continue to love. Gareth is gone, goddamn it. And today I won't write.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Day 215: Moments of Grace
I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. Today's writing is in response to a prompt.
October 1, 2014
Today's prompt acknowledges the strange curiosities of grief. Megan talks about those moments of grace when the intense pain is momentarily relieved and we "shift into place." When things are "not 'right,' but righted." I can't tell you how much her experience has spoken to me- how her words have sunk right in and resonated with everything I know to be true now.
What I love the most about this prompt is that she brings with it a warning. "It's tricky to talk about," she writes. "If you share the scarce moments of peace, or alignment or grace, people outside your grief process may jump on it, shrieking with joy that you've found it! You've found the gift! When it isn't that way at all."
Yes.
I've found the same thing with times that I'm having a great day, full of light and laughter. "You're so much better than you used to be!" well-intentioned friends will say. Or I talk about how grateful I am for a particular aspect of knowing Gareth. "See? Doesn't that seem to somehow make it all worth it? Wasn't that the lesson?" No. And no. It is tricky to talk about. I agree with Megan.
But it's also important to talk about the moments of grace that begin to appear. It's especially important to hear if you're in those very first few hours, days, and weeks. Every once in awhile I'll remember what it was to pull my grief behind me as I trudged to the car, or to the subway, or to my classroom. I remember the weight of it. The sounds it made scraping the ground. I remember the sheer exhaustion of its attachment to me. Of my attachment to it. I remember wondering how it was possible for me to continue crying. And crying. And crying, And crying.
I walked on an overpass in my small town yesterday. It's a small one, but high enough that I could look down over the cars below, if I felt like stopping. I remembered the first time I crossed that overpass, maybe 2 weeks after Gareth died. I had stopped then, and while I had not for a minute considered climbing up and dropping over the rail, I let myself be comforted by the parallel world where this could happen. I let myself play it out and feel relief. I was constantly inventing and watching my own death as a sort of pain-killing device. I was self-medicating with my active imagination.
It's important to talk about this. That it's normal to think these things. And that a day will come, like it did for me yesterday, when you realize you haven't had those fantasies in quite some time. The overpass becomes just an overpass. The cars below are just cars below. Things are being righted again. Everything in its right place without the sudden disaster- the fall, the crash, the explosion, the sudden death. Trust is there that when you go under, you will resurface again. You no longer constantly need an escape plan from the intensity of grief.
There is also no way to tell someone this in the first hours, the first days, the first weeks of their loss. Because it's not possible. It's not a reality. The world has been shredded and set afire and grace, while there, takes a major backseat to immeasurable sorrow. There is no telling a person in those first few hours, days, and weeks to focus on the grace. You cannot tell a newly grieving person that grace is there.
If their loved one is not there, nothing is there. The world momentarily becomes a void that has sucked everything out of it but left you there. It's incredibly cruel. The grace is that we are able to continue at all, those of us hit with immense loss.
Grace. My grandmother's name was Grace. She died some years ago, but she has always been someone I call out to in times of deep sadness. It was interesting to talk to Gareth about this and find out that he felt the same way about his grandma, Nana. We seemed to have this duo of strong and beautiful grandma spirits watching over us.
I remember sitting in our favorite coffee house, each working on some writing, and a "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" began playing. This is a song that will always remind me of Grace, of my grandma. She had been declining, and was close to death during a particular visit. She suddenly opened her eyes, looked to the ceiling, and said, "Oh! Isn't it beautiful!" She was seeing gold coins fall from the sky. Then she began to sing. "Soooooome-wheeeeeere oooooover the rainbooooow, wayyyyy up hiiiiiiigh!" Her voice was old and warbly and beautiful. Grace.
In that coffee shop with Gareth one day in late summer, I wrote about Grace. About Gareth. About that moment where the two of them met. I wonder now if there was some greater meeting happening. Grace, my grandmother, and Nana, Gareth's grandmother. Grace and Gareth. Was there grace happening in that moment? Could I have been preparing myself for grace?
The Intersection of You and Grace
Grace finds me here
sitting across from you
at our favorite cafe
hands reaching across the table
so skin can touch skin
Grace breathes herself in
through lyrics familiar
and chords which swell
in such a way that I can tell she
is here without even looking
without even lifting my gaze
from the page where ink lays itself
down as an offering
to the intersection of you
and Grace
The first time I felt this grace was about 2 months after Gareth died. I wrote about it here in a short post. I had read a poem Gareth was writing two nights before he fell. It was a tough poem to read- beautiful words of missing me, being reminded of me, wanting to be with me, and trying to make sense of his own grief. As I read it- reread it, really- I had my first real moment of things feeling "righted." I talk about the "shift." The "deep understanding."
It's important to know that this is part of the fluid state of things in the living after the loss. These moments of grace, these shifts, are not permanent states. They are not indicators that one is "moving on" or "moving forward" or "letting go." They just are. They will happen. They will bring an incredible sense of stillness and connectedness. They may be followed by what feels like a deeper period of despondency. But they will come.
What does it feel like, these moments of things being "righted"? These moments of grace? I must remember to write about it when I'm in that exact moment. Trying to do so later is like trying to describe a dream in detail when you only have the words to explain bits and pieces. It is the powerful dream that leaves you with a feeling, but not with the ability to get the details right. It's a moment of serenity on a spiritual level. A cosmic level. It's big.
It is every cell in my body settling into itself and knowing it is right where it needs to be. It is all things unraveling in the wind and no attempt to quickly weave them back again. It is being mesmerized by the unraveling. By the way the strands cross over and catch the drifts and circle around one another. It is sun-in-the-face and hand-out-of-the-car-window-on-a-summer kind of peace. It is not denial that your love is gone nor a forgetting that it hurts not be with him. It is not making any true sense of it at all, but just being right in the middle of he was here and we loved. He was here and we loved. He was here and we loved.
It is the face relaxing. The brows going back to their right place, resting comfortable above the eyes. It is the throat ceasing to be constricted. It is the lungs filling up with air. It is looking around at everyone doing their everyday thing and thinking, "There is more than this. There is so, so much more than this." It is not being afraid that there is more than this.
Grief can wash over me when I least expect it. It can knock me down in a moment's notice. Grace can wash over me without warning, too. In time, I suspect there will be a rhythm to it. Like my breath. In and out. In and out. Gentle changes, without much thought. Like the tide. In and out. In and out. Grace, as the moon, calling her ocean back again and again. Day, night, and day again. Spring and then summer. Fall and then winter. And back again. There is no permanence in grief. There is no permanence in grace. I will cloak myself in whichever appears, at any given moment, and move forward. Crying. Dancing. Laughing. Twirling. Falling down into grace.
October 1, 2014
Today's prompt acknowledges the strange curiosities of grief. Megan talks about those moments of grace when the intense pain is momentarily relieved and we "shift into place." When things are "not 'right,' but righted." I can't tell you how much her experience has spoken to me- how her words have sunk right in and resonated with everything I know to be true now.
What I love the most about this prompt is that she brings with it a warning. "It's tricky to talk about," she writes. "If you share the scarce moments of peace, or alignment or grace, people outside your grief process may jump on it, shrieking with joy that you've found it! You've found the gift! When it isn't that way at all."
Yes.
I've found the same thing with times that I'm having a great day, full of light and laughter. "You're so much better than you used to be!" well-intentioned friends will say. Or I talk about how grateful I am for a particular aspect of knowing Gareth. "See? Doesn't that seem to somehow make it all worth it? Wasn't that the lesson?" No. And no. It is tricky to talk about. I agree with Megan.
But it's also important to talk about the moments of grace that begin to appear. It's especially important to hear if you're in those very first few hours, days, and weeks. Every once in awhile I'll remember what it was to pull my grief behind me as I trudged to the car, or to the subway, or to my classroom. I remember the weight of it. The sounds it made scraping the ground. I remember the sheer exhaustion of its attachment to me. Of my attachment to it. I remember wondering how it was possible for me to continue crying. And crying. And crying, And crying.
I walked on an overpass in my small town yesterday. It's a small one, but high enough that I could look down over the cars below, if I felt like stopping. I remembered the first time I crossed that overpass, maybe 2 weeks after Gareth died. I had stopped then, and while I had not for a minute considered climbing up and dropping over the rail, I let myself be comforted by the parallel world where this could happen. I let myself play it out and feel relief. I was constantly inventing and watching my own death as a sort of pain-killing device. I was self-medicating with my active imagination.
It's important to talk about this. That it's normal to think these things. And that a day will come, like it did for me yesterday, when you realize you haven't had those fantasies in quite some time. The overpass becomes just an overpass. The cars below are just cars below. Things are being righted again. Everything in its right place without the sudden disaster- the fall, the crash, the explosion, the sudden death. Trust is there that when you go under, you will resurface again. You no longer constantly need an escape plan from the intensity of grief.
There is also no way to tell someone this in the first hours, the first days, the first weeks of their loss. Because it's not possible. It's not a reality. The world has been shredded and set afire and grace, while there, takes a major backseat to immeasurable sorrow. There is no telling a person in those first few hours, days, and weeks to focus on the grace. You cannot tell a newly grieving person that grace is there.
If their loved one is not there, nothing is there. The world momentarily becomes a void that has sucked everything out of it but left you there. It's incredibly cruel. The grace is that we are able to continue at all, those of us hit with immense loss.
Grace. My grandmother's name was Grace. She died some years ago, but she has always been someone I call out to in times of deep sadness. It was interesting to talk to Gareth about this and find out that he felt the same way about his grandma, Nana. We seemed to have this duo of strong and beautiful grandma spirits watching over us.
I remember sitting in our favorite coffee house, each working on some writing, and a "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" began playing. This is a song that will always remind me of Grace, of my grandma. She had been declining, and was close to death during a particular visit. She suddenly opened her eyes, looked to the ceiling, and said, "Oh! Isn't it beautiful!" She was seeing gold coins fall from the sky. Then she began to sing. "Soooooome-wheeeeeere oooooover the rainbooooow, wayyyyy up hiiiiiiigh!" Her voice was old and warbly and beautiful. Grace.
In that coffee shop with Gareth one day in late summer, I wrote about Grace. About Gareth. About that moment where the two of them met. I wonder now if there was some greater meeting happening. Grace, my grandmother, and Nana, Gareth's grandmother. Grace and Gareth. Was there grace happening in that moment? Could I have been preparing myself for grace?
The Intersection of You and Grace
Grace finds me here
sitting across from you
at our favorite cafe
hands reaching across the table
so skin can touch skin
Grace breathes herself in
through lyrics familiar
and chords which swell
in such a way that I can tell she
is here without even looking
without even lifting my gaze
from the page where ink lays itself
down as an offering
to the intersection of you
and Grace
 |
| "Graced with Light"- by Anne Patterson: art installation at San Francisco's Grace Cathedral |
The first time I felt this grace was about 2 months after Gareth died. I wrote about it here in a short post. I had read a poem Gareth was writing two nights before he fell. It was a tough poem to read- beautiful words of missing me, being reminded of me, wanting to be with me, and trying to make sense of his own grief. As I read it- reread it, really- I had my first real moment of things feeling "righted." I talk about the "shift." The "deep understanding."
It's important to know that this is part of the fluid state of things in the living after the loss. These moments of grace, these shifts, are not permanent states. They are not indicators that one is "moving on" or "moving forward" or "letting go." They just are. They will happen. They will bring an incredible sense of stillness and connectedness. They may be followed by what feels like a deeper period of despondency. But they will come.
What does it feel like, these moments of things being "righted"? These moments of grace? I must remember to write about it when I'm in that exact moment. Trying to do so later is like trying to describe a dream in detail when you only have the words to explain bits and pieces. It is the powerful dream that leaves you with a feeling, but not with the ability to get the details right. It's a moment of serenity on a spiritual level. A cosmic level. It's big.
It is every cell in my body settling into itself and knowing it is right where it needs to be. It is all things unraveling in the wind and no attempt to quickly weave them back again. It is being mesmerized by the unraveling. By the way the strands cross over and catch the drifts and circle around one another. It is sun-in-the-face and hand-out-of-the-car-window-on-a-summer kind of peace. It is not denial that your love is gone nor a forgetting that it hurts not be with him. It is not making any true sense of it at all, but just being right in the middle of he was here and we loved. He was here and we loved. He was here and we loved.
It is the face relaxing. The brows going back to their right place, resting comfortable above the eyes. It is the throat ceasing to be constricted. It is the lungs filling up with air. It is looking around at everyone doing their everyday thing and thinking, "There is more than this. There is so, so much more than this." It is not being afraid that there is more than this.
Grief can wash over me when I least expect it. It can knock me down in a moment's notice. Grace can wash over me without warning, too. In time, I suspect there will be a rhythm to it. Like my breath. In and out. In and out. Gentle changes, without much thought. Like the tide. In and out. In and out. Grace, as the moon, calling her ocean back again and again. Day, night, and day again. Spring and then summer. Fall and then winter. And back again. There is no permanence in grief. There is no permanence in grace. I will cloak myself in whichever appears, at any given moment, and move forward. Crying. Dancing. Laughing. Twirling. Falling down into grace.
Day 214: You Would Tell Me This
I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. Today's writing is in response to a prompt. "If I imagine you speaking, imagine you loving me through this, you would tell me..."
September 30, 2014
If I imagine you speaking, imagine you loving me through this, you would tell me so much. You'd continuing telling me things until the tears dried up and the smile returned to my face. You'd tell me things again and again until I heard you. Until I believed them to be true. Good things. Things that would make me breathe so deeply that I could feel every inch of my lungs fill up. If I imagine you speaking, imagine you loving me through this, you would tell me so much.
The funny thing is that everything I imagine you would say to me, every single word you'd say to love me through this, I was able to hear you say when you were alive. How did I know to let those words create grooves in a record I would play time and time again after you left? Sometimes it's not even a conscious choice. Sometimes you are just there, in my head, playing my favorite tunes. When I start to judge myself, your voice is there. When I doubt I can do this, your voice is there. When I feel lazy, unattractive, out of shape, your voice is there. When I take the criticisms of others too personally, your voice is there.
You've given me the kindest, gentlest way to care for myself that I can think of. You've given words, in the voice of the man I love, to remind me that I can do this. That I am beautiful. That I mean something. The record is set to play always. And if I forget to place the needle upon it and take everything I hear in, you seem to do it for me. These, the sweet sounds of encouragement that I was so lucky to hear you tell me when you were here:
When I don't think I can do it anymore:
You are a spiritual warrior, babe. You've got this.
When I wake up feeling less than beautiful:
YOU are hands-down, the sexiest woman I've ever met.
You want an ice-cream? Have 10. Seriously. You could gain 50 pounds and still be attractive to me.
When I just need to be comforted:
I hate seeing you in pain. I wish there were something I could do to make this go away.
You deserve someone to cook for you. Seriously, babe. You just sit there looking beautiful. I'm going to cook dinner for you.
A cup of tea is medicinal! Want some English Breakfast?
When I need motivation to get out there and run:
The fact that you run is sexy to me. You, babe. You are a runner. I'll see you when you get back.
When I'm second-guessing my abilities:
I love to watch you teach. You're a great teacher. You're just good at it! They're lucky to have you.
You're a great listener. Really. I've heard you talk to people on the phone. You're solid.
When someone says something unkind to/about me:
Bitches! That's what, babe. If someone isn't down with you, they're bitches. You don't want bitches for friends, anyway, right? Right, babe?
When I forget how much my connection to God means:
I want the kind of God that you have. I want that relationship. I like the way you talk to your God.
When I forget I am made from joy:
I love how we play! You're not afraid to be a kid. You're an artist. All of life is performance art to you, and I love that.
So many things bring you joy. I love to watch your joy explode. Ignite your joy. If anyone doesn't know what joy is, they should just watch you around some puppies.
Here. You need this. This little fuzzy animal key chain is saying, "I want to go home with Bridget!"
And your voice, these words, they were never intended to convince me of something I didn't believe about myself. They were to remind me of what I already knew. They were a reflection back to myself of what took me years to believe. That I am beautiful. That I am connected. That I mean something. Your words encourage me not to forget.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
September 30, 2014
If I imagine you speaking, imagine you loving me through this, you would tell me so much. You'd continuing telling me things until the tears dried up and the smile returned to my face. You'd tell me things again and again until I heard you. Until I believed them to be true. Good things. Things that would make me breathe so deeply that I could feel every inch of my lungs fill up. If I imagine you speaking, imagine you loving me through this, you would tell me so much.
The funny thing is that everything I imagine you would say to me, every single word you'd say to love me through this, I was able to hear you say when you were alive. How did I know to let those words create grooves in a record I would play time and time again after you left? Sometimes it's not even a conscious choice. Sometimes you are just there, in my head, playing my favorite tunes. When I start to judge myself, your voice is there. When I doubt I can do this, your voice is there. When I feel lazy, unattractive, out of shape, your voice is there. When I take the criticisms of others too personally, your voice is there.
You've given me the kindest, gentlest way to care for myself that I can think of. You've given words, in the voice of the man I love, to remind me that I can do this. That I am beautiful. That I mean something. The record is set to play always. And if I forget to place the needle upon it and take everything I hear in, you seem to do it for me. These, the sweet sounds of encouragement that I was so lucky to hear you tell me when you were here:
When I don't think I can do it anymore:
You are a spiritual warrior, babe. You've got this.
When I wake up feeling less than beautiful:
YOU are hands-down, the sexiest woman I've ever met.
You want an ice-cream? Have 10. Seriously. You could gain 50 pounds and still be attractive to me.
When I just need to be comforted:
I hate seeing you in pain. I wish there were something I could do to make this go away.
You deserve someone to cook for you. Seriously, babe. You just sit there looking beautiful. I'm going to cook dinner for you.
A cup of tea is medicinal! Want some English Breakfast?
When I need motivation to get out there and run:
The fact that you run is sexy to me. You, babe. You are a runner. I'll see you when you get back.
When I'm second-guessing my abilities:
I love to watch you teach. You're a great teacher. You're just good at it! They're lucky to have you.
You're a great listener. Really. I've heard you talk to people on the phone. You're solid.
When someone says something unkind to/about me:
Bitches! That's what, babe. If someone isn't down with you, they're bitches. You don't want bitches for friends, anyway, right? Right, babe?
When I forget how much my connection to God means:
I want the kind of God that you have. I want that relationship. I like the way you talk to your God.
When I forget I am made from joy:
I love how we play! You're not afraid to be a kid. You're an artist. All of life is performance art to you, and I love that.
So many things bring you joy. I love to watch your joy explode. Ignite your joy. If anyone doesn't know what joy is, they should just watch you around some puppies.
Here. You need this. This little fuzzy animal key chain is saying, "I want to go home with Bridget!"
And your voice, these words, they were never intended to convince me of something I didn't believe about myself. They were to remind me of what I already knew. They were a reflection back to myself of what took me years to believe. That I am beautiful. That I am connected. That I mean something. Your words encourage me not to forget.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Day 213: Hear Me Out, That Which You Call Death
I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. Today's writing is in response to a prompt. The first two lines are borrowed from "The Wild Iris" by Louise Gluck.
September 29, 2014
--------------------
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
You could not come with me. The You of My Words
with your palms flat on my face and your lips on
the tip of my nose. You could not come with me.
My love person, with your head on my chest and
arms wrapped around my sides. I remember. I was there, too.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Look! It is my heartbeat! I was speaking to you.
I'm right here, babe. I heard you tell me. I will
not leave you. I heard you speak. Your parents are
coming, babe. They will be here soon. I heard you
speaking to me. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.
I heard you speak. Your sweet, calming voice washed
over me as it always had. I heard you and I spoke back
in the beating of my heart. 111. 111. 111. It was me, babe.
I was speaking back to you. Did you hear me?
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Caleb. Mina. Paige. Beth. John. I remember. I was there.
They pulled you from me, babe. I remember. You did not
want to leave. I felt it, your heartbreak. Your hurt. I climbed
into your cage of ribs. Did you feel me then? I climbed
right into your cage of ribs and tried to comfort you.
My love person. My sweetheart. I had always wanted
to break free and inhabit the same cage of ribs as yours.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Scott. I am so sorry. What trouble
I've been. This is not your fault. You are not at fault. You
must never reproach yourself. I remember. I was there, too.
I felt your hands on my leg. I heard you speaking. My bear!
Scotty, my bear! You remembered. My bear. My childhood
bear made the long flight with you. I know how you tried to
comfort me. Could you feel me trying to comfort you, too?
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
I remember seeing the love in that room. Around my bed. Surging
through you, through me, through each other. You could not see
it, but with eyes swollen shut and yet eyes wide open I could see
it all. Swirling colors. Glowing sparks. You were each lit in love.
All that you touched- my legs, my face, my hair, my hands-
remained covered in this phosphorescent love. It warmed me.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. You could not
come with me. You're going to have to do this alone, babe.
You told me. And I remember. You can do this. We're here.
Everyone's here. And it's ok. You can do this. You opened
the door, the door through which I had to go alone, you
opened it and stepped back. You could not come with me.
Hear me out: this was the end of my suffering. And the
beginning of yours. Hear me out: I am not far. And your
suffering will end. Hear me out, my love. My love person.
The You of My Words. Place your head and hand to this door
as you did to my chest. Are you there? Are you in there, babe?
I heard you there in my hospital bed. I heard you begging for
a response. Please don't confuse my stillness with my absence.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. I walked through
alone, as I was asked. As I needed to do. I had to walk through
it alone. Go to it. Go right up to it. Place your hand and your head
against it and be still. Listen. Listen for me. Just when you think I
cannot hear you, hear me out: I am there. On the other side. I am there.
September 29, 2014
--------------------
 |
| Doors installation by Chan Hwee Chong. |
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
You could not come with me. The You of My Words
with your palms flat on my face and your lips on
the tip of my nose. You could not come with me.
My love person, with your head on my chest and
arms wrapped around my sides. I remember. I was there, too.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Look! It is my heartbeat! I was speaking to you.
I'm right here, babe. I heard you tell me. I will
not leave you. I heard you speak. Your parents are
coming, babe. They will be here soon. I heard you
speaking to me. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.
I heard you speak. Your sweet, calming voice washed
over me as it always had. I heard you and I spoke back
in the beating of my heart. 111. 111. 111. It was me, babe.
I was speaking back to you. Did you hear me?
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Caleb. Mina. Paige. Beth. John. I remember. I was there.
They pulled you from me, babe. I remember. You did not
want to leave. I felt it, your heartbreak. Your hurt. I climbed
into your cage of ribs. Did you feel me then? I climbed
right into your cage of ribs and tried to comfort you.
My love person. My sweetheart. I had always wanted
to break free and inhabit the same cage of ribs as yours.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Scott. I am so sorry. What trouble
I've been. This is not your fault. You are not at fault. You
must never reproach yourself. I remember. I was there, too.
I felt your hands on my leg. I heard you speaking. My bear!
Scotty, my bear! You remembered. My bear. My childhood
bear made the long flight with you. I know how you tried to
comfort me. Could you feel me trying to comfort you, too?
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
I remember seeing the love in that room. Around my bed. Surging
through you, through me, through each other. You could not see
it, but with eyes swollen shut and yet eyes wide open I could see
it all. Swirling colors. Glowing sparks. You were each lit in love.
All that you touched- my legs, my face, my hair, my hands-
remained covered in this phosphorescent love. It warmed me.
Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. You could not
come with me. You're going to have to do this alone, babe.
You told me. And I remember. You can do this. We're here.
Everyone's here. And it's ok. You can do this. You opened
the door, the door through which I had to go alone, you
opened it and stepped back. You could not come with me.
Hear me out: this was the end of my suffering. And the
beginning of yours. Hear me out: I am not far. And your
suffering will end. Hear me out, my love. My love person.
The You of My Words. Place your head and hand to this door
as you did to my chest. Are you there? Are you in there, babe?
I heard you there in my hospital bed. I heard you begging for
a response. Please don't confuse my stillness with my absence.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. I walked through
alone, as I was asked. As I needed to do. I had to walk through
it alone. Go to it. Go right up to it. Place your hand and your head
against it and be still. Listen. Listen for me. Just when you think I
cannot hear you, hear me out: I am there. On the other side. I am there.
Day 212: I Remember Those Robes
I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 21. Write about something I remember. Pick one thing and go.
--------------------------------
September 28, 2014
Your tea is fruity, and the waitress explains it "makes man's pee powerful." Traditional story states that some very important man drank this same tea, and the next morning he broke his chamber pot with the sheer force of his urine stream. Whoa. I can't wait to hear the goings on of you using the bathroom the next morning. It proves...uneventful. Porcelain spared. Liars.
A modest place along the river and close to downtown, Evergreen Motel is fairly typical of any inexpensive "love motel" sprouting up all over the country. Nothing feels too shady about checking in at the little window, but we do receive a plastic zippered kit with all the amenities: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair bands, and 2 condoms. A welcome gift, if you will.
The room feels like a throwback to a 1960s movie set. Shiny wallpaper, heavy gold brocade bedspread, dark wood paneling. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale laundry. And those robes.
"Oooh! Mine has a sash! Does yours have a sash?" I yelp.
"Does mine have a sash? Look at this exquisite knot I've tied!"
"That is impressive! Did you learn that in boy scouts?"
"I learned THIS in boy scouts!" And you proceed to make a ridiculous pose- left foot on the bed, left elbow on your left knee, eyebrows raised, right hand on your hip.
"Oh! That's fantastic! I learned THIS from my GRANDMA!" And I make an equally ridiculous pose, meant to be so unsexily-sexy that our attraction parts would recoil. I can't quite recall the exact pose, but it involved a doorway.
"Oh! Let's take a portrait!" I suggest.
"YES. Great idea."
The camera is set up on the counter, just above the tiny fridge with the two cold cans of orange juice and the one large bottle of water. (provided) My robe makes hideous swishing sounds as I run from the camera to the bed where you are already sitting in a noble pose, leaning on your left thigh, right hand on your knee. I jump up and kneel at your side, placing my chin on your left shoulder.
"These robes are so SHINEEEEEEE!" I mumble through my camera-grin. Click. I run to the camera and hit the button again. Flip on the lights. Swish. Swish. Swish. Hop on the bed. Click. Perhaps the cheesiest faces we are able to make.
"Oh! Let's!"
I hop off to set the camera up again and you swat me on my backside. "Hey, you!" I yell. I hit the button on the camera again and leap over to where you are. Like we had been practicing for days to be on the cover of an appalling romance novel, we slide instantly into place, your left hand behind my neck, right hand around my waist. I'm looking up for a kiss, but you're looking at the camera like, "Oh, yeah...I am a sexy man and this is what sexy men do!" Click.
This is the one that almost makes us pee our pants laughing. Who has fun like this? We do. You. Me. Those ridiculous robes. That smoky motel room. That harsh lighting.
I remember it. I remember all of it. I remember what it was to have incredible fun with you. To recognize the children in each other and not be afraid to play. To recognize the adult in one another and not be afraid to love deeply.
I remember this. I remember you.
--------------------------------
September 28, 2014
I remember those robes. Those ridiculous robes. Not at all silk. More like Grandma's very outdated curtains. Highly flammable, I'm sure. We find them hanging on sturdy wooden hangers at the first ever motel we stay in together. We decide to take a trip to Gwangju, about a 1.5 hour drive from Hadong. We each have friends to visit, and an overnight trip away seems like fun.
We meet your friend and two Korean friends of his. Women. (How did you know him? I can't recall. He was tall. Bald. Handsome face.) We have tacos and later tea at a tea house with them. Our tea comes in different cups accompanied by a little wooden animal on the saucer. We are not allowed to take them home.
Your tea is fruity, and the waitress explains it "makes man's pee powerful." Traditional story states that some very important man drank this same tea, and the next morning he broke his chamber pot with the sheer force of his urine stream. Whoa. I can't wait to hear the goings on of you using the bathroom the next morning. It proves...uneventful. Porcelain spared. Liars.
After tea we dance in the alley on the way back to the car, and later you write a poem about it. You ask the Korean women what one calls one's sweetheart, and we are delighted to learn the direct translation: "love person." We start calling each other "love person." This is in your poem.
It is well into the evening when we reach our car, and we realize we haven't a clue where to stay for the night. One of the women offers to ride with us and take us to a place nearby- "Evergreen Motel." It is cheap, she says, about 45,000 won for the night.
A modest place along the river and close to downtown, Evergreen Motel is fairly typical of any inexpensive "love motel" sprouting up all over the country. Nothing feels too shady about checking in at the little window, but we do receive a plastic zippered kit with all the amenities: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair bands, and 2 condoms. A welcome gift, if you will.
The room feels like a throwback to a 1960s movie set. Shiny wallpaper, heavy gold brocade bedspread, dark wood paneling. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale laundry. And those robes.
Mine is in the rose-family of colors. Yours is dusty blue. The performers in us are in those robes and taking ridiculous photographs before our bags hit the floor.
"Oooh! Mine has a sash! Does yours have a sash?" I yelp.
"Does mine have a sash? Look at this exquisite knot I've tied!"
"That is impressive! Did you learn that in boy scouts?"
"I learned THIS in boy scouts!" And you proceed to make a ridiculous pose- left foot on the bed, left elbow on your left knee, eyebrows raised, right hand on your hip.
"Oh! That's fantastic! I learned THIS from my GRANDMA!" And I make an equally ridiculous pose, meant to be so unsexily-sexy that our attraction parts would recoil. I can't quite recall the exact pose, but it involved a doorway.
"Oh! Let's take a portrait!" I suggest.
"YES. Great idea."
The camera is set up on the counter, just above the tiny fridge with the two cold cans of orange juice and the one large bottle of water. (provided) My robe makes hideous swishing sounds as I run from the camera to the bed where you are already sitting in a noble pose, leaning on your left thigh, right hand on your knee. I jump up and kneel at your side, placing my chin on your left shoulder.
"These robes are so SHINEEEEEEE!" I mumble through my camera-grin. Click. I run to the camera and hit the button again. Flip on the lights. Swish. Swish. Swish. Hop on the bed. Click. Perhaps the cheesiest faces we are able to make.
"Who has fun doing things like this?" you ask.
"We do!" I grab your face with both hands and plant a big one on the side of your head.
"Let's do a standing pose. A really bad one," you suggest.
"Let's do a standing pose. A really bad one," you suggest.
"Oh! Let's!"
I hop off to set the camera up again and you swat me on my backside. "Hey, you!" I yell. I hit the button on the camera again and leap over to where you are. Like we had been practicing for days to be on the cover of an appalling romance novel, we slide instantly into place, your left hand behind my neck, right hand around my waist. I'm looking up for a kiss, but you're looking at the camera like, "Oh, yeah...I am a sexy man and this is what sexy men do!" Click.
I remember it. I remember all of it. I remember what it was to have incredible fun with you. To recognize the children in each other and not be afraid to play. To recognize the adult in one another and not be afraid to love deeply.
I remember this. I remember you.
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