"And I watch them burn / When will I ever learn? / If I wait it doesn't mean / You will return"
February is a bad month for a friend of mine. Her father passed away in that month 19 years ago and she recently wrote a blog about the experience. She was just a child at the time and it's taken awhile to process all of the feelings she has on the subject. I know it still hurts a lot that she didn't get to know him as she grew up, she's had to rely on stories about what kind of man he was. All she has are those stories and the mannerisms and personality traits that she has in common with her father. She'll never get to experience him walking her down the aisle, or having talks about the future. And as tragic as that is, at least she's able to take some comfort in those things. It's not much but it's something. As I read her post, I felt myself a little overcome with emotion. I just got so sad, now having heard more of the story than I ever had before. I've always known about his death and the ways it has affected her, we've had lengthy conversations about it, but it really hit home for me I guess. Another friend once told me that he found it easier to bond with people who had been through some kind of great tragedy, as he had. I can't say I disagree. Both of these friends dealt with terrible losses in childhood, both had their fathers taken from by a murderer. And they are two of the closest people to me. People bond over the craziest things sometimes.
I re-read that blog post at least three times, taking in new details each time. I kept thinking about how she is much braver than I. Even though her post took two years to complete, at least she was able to write it. I'm going on 11 years since my loss and, although I have touched on the actual loss and analyzed the "Dark Ages" something fierce, I have never been able to write down the good things that preceded the untimely end. And there were so many good things. I used to not be able to remember any of them, I consciously stopped myself from going there because it hurt too much. Then, a few years ago, I made peace with my girlfriend's mother and that had a surprisingly positive effect on me. Because I was dealing with my own recovery and because I'm so damn stubborn, I refused any kind of grief counseling in the aftermath of her departure. I just completely shut down. And that lasted for quite some time, I was very bitter. After finding a way to get along with her mom, I was both pissed off and relieved. We'd never been able to see eye to eye when it truly mattered and that upset me. But we were able to reminisce a bit about the past and that was something I never dreamed we'd be able to do. But I left it there, I didn't reminisce by myself. I finally came to terms with the loss but not enough to actually use the "D" word, or talk about her at length with anyone else. A few years ago I put a photo of her back up in my place and that was somewhat soothing. More recently, I've begun carrying the prayer card from her funeral (which I couldn't attend) in my wallet. And there are other reminders that have always been there; a crucifix from the funeral has always hung somewhere in the places I've lived, and a few things that belonged to her have always hung from a chain around my neck. I'm aware that she's gone (at least, she's no longer in the form she once was, but she is here somewhere) but feeling her presence in little things eases the pain.
It is the little things that get to me when I think about the good times. I remember the strangest things about her. She loved music and writing as much as I did, but she was much better at both then I'll ever be. I would write something down but it would be missing that little extra piece to make it pop and she would sit down next to me, skim the page and add in the perfect words. It used to drive me crazy that she would read six books at a time and have them all stacked up in the worst places. I do the same thing now. She hated the way I would crank the radio full blast when a song she hated came on. I'd turn it up and sing at the top of my lungs and she'd roll her eyes at me and swear she would toss me off a bridge if I didn't stop. She used to leave little post-it notes in random places. Sometimes they rambled on about what I thought was pointless stuff. Other times they said how much she loved me or just had a little drawing on them. She was good at all things involving art and I felt so untalented. She could draw, paint, write, come up with all kinds of creative stuff. All I could do was write, and even my writing was sub-par when put up next to hers. I adored her. And I know she loved me. I have many regrets when it comes to us but the biggest was probably not taking that last call. She called me and I didn't answer because I was busy. I couldn't tell you what was more important that moment, which means it likely wasn't important at all. She left a message, a voicemail I have to this day, saved somewhere on a hard drive. I never listen to it but I consider myself blessed to still have the option of hearing her voice.
I discovered this song awhile back via an episode of Law & Order: SVU and I wish I'd found it sooner. The entire song played over images of a mother aging over the course of a decade, awaiting word on the fate of her kidnapped son. I instantly liked this song because it reminded me of her. The lyrics are almost word for word how I felt for nearly a decade. I'm not an idiot, I knew she was never coming home again, but there is a certain kind of waiting that you live with when someone dies. In the immediate aftermath, you go into denial and thing that there must be a mistake and that person is going to walk through the door any minute. I lingered in that stage and a part of me continued to wait for years. And that part did have to learn that she was not coming back, no matter how much I wanted her to. It is because of this that I kept her things as she'd left them. Surely she would be back to get them. In the beginning, I thought about her as if she'd simply left me for someone or something better. It was easier to think that because it meant that she was still here, still living and breathing. Even now, I think that way sometimes because I desperately want that to be the case. And a tiny part of me gets its hopes up when I hear someone laugh the way she does or say something that reminds me of her. I know better, but the waiting continues in some form or another. I guess it always will.
