In the Mourning
I let myself into Annie’s house after everyone had left. The planned spring break trip to LA for Tony and Luca was still on, no matter that half—more than half—the people they were going to visit had already been here a week earlier for Annie’s wake. The dog, the cat and the fish needed attention and I would provide it—as I always did when they went out of town. That first night, I just walked through the house, her house, letting the quiet settle my heart
The next morning, I threw myself into tidying up her home. There was so much to do, too much, but I was game for it. I tackled the two closets that Tony asked me to clean first, tossing everything that was expired or half-used or, sometimes, even empty. I went through her clothes, her make-up, her jewelry--selecting things to keep for her sister, her brother’s daughter, me. I worked all day, playing music from a playlist that I had just shared with her a week or so earlier. Not playing it, really…blasting it.
No one was with me at Annie’s—and time became rather swirly, speeding up and slowing down behind my back. I didn’t need to go out for anything—the pantry was still full of the generosity of friends and family. I had packed some clothes, but what I didn’t have, I borrowed from Annie…a striped sweater (her signature style), a pair of cotton socks. I was fine. It felt like I had been there for days and other times as if I had just arrived.
When I finally did emerge from the house after a couple of days for pet treats, I drove to a nearby shopping plaza. Walking into the pet store and having to talk to the somewhat impatient clerk stunned me. Couldn’t she see that I was in mourning? Wasn’t there an enormous neon arrow pointed at my head with the words “Daughter Just Died” blinking on and off? Could people not see what had just happened just by looking at me? Why was this young woman being so snippy to me? I was also out of oat milk, but watching how many people were walking into the nearby grocery store stopped me. There would be more people inside. They wouldn’t see the big hole in my heart either. It would be too hard to walk around as if I was doing something as normal as buying oat milk.
Traditional mourning calls for the bereaved to limit social engagements that originally meant going out and seeing people, going to restaurants, grocery stores. I can certainly agree with that. But what about social media engagements? Do I go there, is it safe there? Can I do normal things like post my Wordle results to Facebook? Do I like and laugh and heart people’s posts when they share photos of their families enjoying a vacation or a special occasion? Can I write about anything other than the profound loss that is Annie leaving this world?
In these new days, how do I move about the world—virtual or real—without feeling like a layer of my skin has been removed, feeling fragile and exposed? I guess I don’t. But I do have some say in how I do it.
Last week I gave this prompt to one of my writing groups: “Every life is many days, day after day.”* When I began to write to the prompt myself, it came to me that it is now my job to focus on all the days I had with Annie rather than all the days I won’t have. The days she was here in the world meant something and I can’t disregard them now that I’m so bereft. I have recently become aware of a very powerful feeling of wanting everything I do, say and feel about Annie to be positive. I could get lost in my mourning and succumb to the sadness and grief, but I loved her and we were close and we laughed and shared dreams and plans and we were friends—she was my better half. While trying to learn how to move about the world without her seems nearly impossible, I am still constantly reminded that she lives in my heart as a beautiful and positive human. That’s how I want to live with her now.
It is not too much.
You seem to always do things with such grace and gratitude. It’s very easy to see how Annie was such an incredible person. She took after you! I can’t imagine what you feel. I pray for you.
I have been finding my way thru this loss day by day and in my own way learning how to honor Annie and the part of me that she has become all these years of being her stepdad. For the last few days I have found solace and direction in seeing more clearly how learning how to live without her in the world offers me the gift of learning how to live with a me that is closer to I truly am. A me that is in possession of a knowing that her absence makes unavoidable.