I’m still in the middle of the gone as the anniversary of my father’s death nears. Some nights I wade in the grief around 6 pm when PBS NewsHour comes on and the seat next to me is vacant. There’s no 2 oz of Dewar’s to measure in the shot glass and pour into his insulated glass with just enough ice, a cherry, and a splash of bitters. I don’t go to the pantry to fetch a Rykrisp and spread the thinest layer of Merkt’s on it like I used to a year ago. No, Jod, can you get me a spoon? so Dad can fish the cherry out of his glass.
God, how I miss the rituals. Those rituals though make the gone so fucking difficult. I wish I had an imaginary box of each ritual or small moment in the closet to unpack so that I could select one each time I get sad. I’d layer on each memory as if preparing for a winter hike in the Northwoods. Whether it be an imaginary box of small moments or a movie in my mind, these bits of magic–they are here with me–even though he’s gone. Sure, some days that consolation prize feels as fantastic as the Mr. Coffee they’d give to the losing contestant on The Match Game, other days I am grateful it for the blessing it is.
Either way, I acknowledge the gaping hole that is the gone. Shit is different. I’m different. Everything is different. Loss creates this hole where substance once was. Be it a relationship, a job, a friendship, an activity, anything that was once a part of your identity–if now gone--you might feel like you need to plug the hole with a shitty wad of Double Mint gum that won’t conform because the loss is too real, too raw, and too recent. What’s the saying, “Time heals all wounds?”
That’s bullshit.
The gaping hole changes form a bit. It may scab over or shrink a little as life continues and you figure out how to live with your respective gone. The thing is you might not be 100% healed because you’re not 100% YOU anymore. You’ve changed. The gone changed you. It had to, didn’t it? Unless you are a completely soulless individual (which you clearly aren’t because you’re reading this book), loss changes people. That’s the gift like a plate of fries next to the shit sandwich that grief served you with your gone. Get it? And now you’re standing in the kitchen with this shit sandwich of grief, but you’re still here-standing. You acknowledge the hole next to you where the ritual was or the memory or the person. You see it. You feel it when you need to or want to. Some days you take down the box and try on the memories like preparing for that hike in The Northwoods. Other days you praise The Almighty for a heaping hot plate of fries next to that grief sandwich and keep it movin’. The fries so tasty, you might not even take a bite of that grief sandwich, not today-anyway.