Coming around
I had a better weekend, a better 2 days than I’ve seen, separately or strung together, in a couple weeks. I got some sleep. I got a new beanbag chair that cradles my body everywhere, which was such a relief I was smiling Saturday morning while I picked up dog poop in the back yard—not usually an activity that provokes smiles. I had a nice hummingbird visit while I was out there, too. I’ve had quite a few lately—I think he’s supporting me extra through a tough period.
Speaking of hummingbirds, I finished the memorial ornament I made for A.
The blurred part is his monogram; the infinity symbol is because I love him forever. They are mother-of-pearl inlaid into ebony. And the pendant has a hummingbird as a symbol of him in a lot of ways, surrounded by the music that made us friends, and was ever a constant in our relationship and conversation. He said that music was his religion; he is the reason I play guitar. It was perfect.
The project took quite a bit longer than I thought it would, because I ended up doing it twice after I sanded right through the infinity symbol on the first one. When I complained about it to E, he pointed out that, given the memorial/meditative nature of the project, doing it again might not be such a bad thing. He was righter than I realized at the time. I was anxious to finish it, to have it on the Christmas tree before the holiday had passed; but as soon as I put it on the tree, tears sprang to my eyes. I thought at first it was because I was, after all, making a memorial ornament to hang on my tree, instead of a gift to give to him. But I don’t think that was it. Not all of it, at any rate.
As much as the ornament was for me, while I was working on it, I felt very strongly that I was making it for him as well. And when it was done, I was sad that it was over. It was then that I realized there was really nothing left for me to do for him. I can’t help or spoil him anymore. I can’t help his family or his friends. It seems that all I could do has been done, and this small ornament was the last of the possible to-do list I hadn’t realized even existed until I checked it off. I never wanted to be finished doing for him; I liked doing for him. And I have seemingly managed to stretch out small memorial tasks for almost a year and a half because I wanted to keep doing for him. I wanted to keep having somewhere or something toward which I could direct that impulse. It has not gone away, not entirely. But all the opportunities I manufactured to satisfy those impulses seem to have evaporated. There is nothing left that I can think of. And that’s why I cried. There is nothing more to do; all that’s left is to be.
And I’ll be damned if that isn’t the answer every time.