Thursday, September 26, 2019

2 weeks later

how many times have i patched and re-patched the crotch of these jeans? they are no longer suitable for work, i pull them on and smirk at myself. i am not going to work.  it is 8pm on a thursday night and i am finally putting on real clothes. after having swaddled myself in a terrycloth bathrobe all day long, i am finally trying to act like a whole person. i pull an old, faded t-shirt over my head.  i've ordered soup from the Nepalese restaurant on the corner and i've paid for it.  the only chore left is to pick it up. 

a tremendous sadness has made my body feel so heavy that this task - walking around the corner and up one small block - seem like an enormous and grueling undertaking. or is it just my heart that is so heavy?  an anvil of an organ weighing me down for weeks now and worsening in unforeseeable ways after the occurrence of an unforeseeable death.

i can feel people wondering at me.  i notice confusion in their glances. 

why is she so distraught?  she barely knew him...

comparatively, this is true. i only came into the family 6 years ago and live far from every other member of the family save for the member of it whom i married 3 years ago. but, that is, in fact, part of the pain.  i very much liked the parts of Zach i knew and, now, i can know no more.

as i learned with my mother's death, a large part of mourning occurs over what might've been and will now never be. i lay my head on my husband's chest 24 hours after learning of his nephew's death and my eyes filled with hot, sudden tears at the thought: he will never get to be this... he will never get to be someone's husband... and someone will never get to have this with him... someone will never get to have him as a husband... and all the children he so wanted so badly to make will go unmade...  he was looking so forward to one day being a husband and a father...

what is it to regret a future that is now rendered impossible?  a state of longing, pure and true.

the last time i saw Zach was just a few months ago.  this past May, my husband and I flew to TX to be present for his younger sister's high school graduation who had earned the honor of Salutatorian.  standing together in the kitchen at his parents' house, Zach, ever curious and welcoming, took it upon himself to ask me about my life: "How's your art practice?" "What's going on with your gallery project?" "How do you like being in a band with your husband?" "Are you still in love with New York City?" "What are you planning to work on next?"

the attention he paid to me did not seem at all forced or false.  his eyes and laughter as we spoke, entirely genuine and refreshing to be around. i was impressed by his kindness and friendliness, remarking on it later in the evening to Brian.  "Of course," he responded, "That's how Zach is!"

since learning of his death 2 weeks ago, i have more or less descended into an oscillating depression. i manage to get through the day by repeating to myself at intervals: you only have to survive this one day.  when you get home, you are allowed to fall down...

i usually do just that.

it might be obvious that this death has woken up deep pain in regard to my mother's passing.  it might be obvious that the shattering effect her death had on my own family and the fear of abandonment it exacerbated has been reawakened by Zach's very untimely exit from our physical reality. it may even be obvious that this fear sits on my chest like a demon, breaking my heart for all who knew him but especially his parents.  when my mother died, the only people i felt worse for than myself at her funeral where my grandparents.  an out-of-order death scrambles what we believe to be true about biology and the natural order of things.  we all agree that this is a pain no parent should know.  ever. even i, who does not have children, can feel the end of that long sword stuck in my chest;  the intense pain of wishing and pleading that time could reverse itself and one small amendment could be made to prevent this tragedy from occurring.

even at his funeral, i expected to look up and see him walking into the room. the disbelief i feel in regard to his absence is shared by everyone, but none more keenly than his parents and siblings.  if his loss has effected me this deeply, i think of what it most certainly is for his parents and his two sisters and all language leaves me.  i sigh.  and i sigh.  and i sigh.

a death shines a light upon where one has gone off-track.  all the things that, should my own life be clipped short, i do not want to have let go unfinished. i look around my studio and see the projects i have allowed to pile up, saying another day or next week or i'll float back to it one of these days...  but, more than that, it is the personal failures of behavior and attitude that call back the rush of hot tears.  all the failures of fortitude, the excuses i've made, the unkindness i've delivered in moments of anger i've previously (and recently) chosen not to corral. Zach's death, as did my mother's, points me back to my desire - perhaps my need - to remember that i, too,  am a kind person and to return to the patience practice of kindness, regardless of how difficult the pile-up of painful life experiences has made it.

as with my mother's death, Zach's departure has made me think i must do better. i must be better than what i've allowed of myself. 

i will set about the task of patching my heart just as i've patched my jeans. over and over again, as many times as it may need. 




Saturday, September 14, 2019

Thursday, September 12, 2019

fact #9

i want to finish the book just so i can say i've read it 

and i want to yell just to yell. 

habit

i am waiting for tomorrow

or for bed-time, rather

impatient as a child because

like a child, i am indoors

safe from the dangers of public spaces

especially the dangers i so often seek.

this is mainly to say

i am bored.

not of the day itself

nor even of my own self

but solely because i am not seated in a bar.