Photographs, memories
I listen to my iPod at work all day, every day, and usually on "shuffle." Half the music on it was in A’s collection first. He and I were/are music junkies, and we traded our entire collections early on in our friendship, and just kept doing it any time either of us got something new. When I met his family, his niece asked me "Did you know that he had over 17,000 songs on his computer?" Yeah, I did. It was his sister’s family that ended up with that computer, and it was a musical treasure trove. He loved music, and it was an appropriate legacy, I think. I believe he’d think so, too. I know it has been for me. Despite our music being mixed for almost 4 years now, I know what came from him originally, and as it pops up randomly, I smile. Sometimes I cry. Other times I just remember.
This morning, it was Billie Myers. I remember so clearly listening to "Tell Me" and the rest of the album on our way back home to his place from San Francisco, and he told me how he really liked that album. He got it from me. I remember the afternoon light, and sitting next to him in the truck, my hand on his leg, his hand on top of mine so it would be free to shift gears, and us talking as I stared at his handsome profile. He would periodically lift my hand to his lips and place a kiss on it, and it gave me butterflies every time.
That memory wasn’t at all sad; it was a wonderful day. But the song made me sad, and I could feel that ache starting in my chest. I wasn’t sure why that song should have elicited such a strong reaction. It has it has almost every time I’ve heard it since he died. But this time it was different; I felt like the memories it evoked were from another life. As vivid as that memory is, to the point where it alone can awaken those same butterflies in my stomach, there is now a distance between it and me. That day seems so far away now, despite the fact that I can conjure it up exactly. The distance doesn’t feel like one of time or space; it’s qualitatively different. I think that maybe it’s an emotional and cognitive separation of the me before and the me after.
It’s a startling and somewhat heartbreaking realization. On the one hand, it means that I have created that new life all bereaved folks must create, actively or passively. I must have, or I’d have no basis for comparison. On the other hand, it means I’ve accepted this new life without his physical presence. It means that what was originally a violently bumpy and unwanted detour has now become the road. It means that I am removed from that life that I loved, a life that could not continue without him in it. And realizing that required me to take a moment and a few deep breaths as I missed and mourned him, and what we had together, once again. The distance I feel between that life and this moment is a disconnect: it was my life, but now it feels like it happened to someone else. I suppose it did. I am different now. Not unrecognizably so, but to those who know me best, noticeably so.
I did work up the courage to ask E how he thought I was progressing in my healing and grief work, from his perspective. I had speculated that to most, I must seem much the same, but allowed that perhaps I was just fooling myself. He told me he thought I was doing pretty well, and had come far, but it seemed that I had not recovered the energy I once had, the zest for life, the optimism, the positive attitude, and the enjoyment of life in general. It’s a fair and accurate evaluation, I think, which makes it better news than I feared. I was worried I’d learn that I was totally delusional in terms of how I thought was presenting myself to the rest of the world. This new life IS happening, and I’m actively engaged in it, for the most part.
In my memory, though, there is this beautiful life I used to be engaged in, a life filled with beautiful moments, laughter, and love, and it is hard to accept that it is over. That book of this serial I’m writing is on the shelf, for me to take down and reread as I wish, but I lived the last page. There is no more. As one who is always sad when an actual good book ends, I don’t want this separation between volumes of my life. But I feel it nonetheless. Perhaps it is a gift I will grow into; it’s hard to know now.
I truly believe that we can continue to have a relationship with those who have passed on, as long as we can acknowledge the changed context of the relationship and adjust. He is a part of this new life of mine, too, but it is in an entirely different role, one that does not involve swapping music or kissing hands. His role now is one of presence, and subtle encouragement, and guidance, and memory, and recalled wisdom. All good things; all the things that were the essence of him, the very soul of him, really. But I’d give a lot to feel his strong hand around my own again. And when I think about how very happy he made me, how good we were together, and know that that will never be again, the missing him, the grief, comes in like a slow, sad tide.
I ended up falling apart tonight; I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. It’s been a long time coming; I felt like I was due back in February, but it never came, and has been, I suppose, building up all along. It’s good to get it out. But when it was done, and I was feeling calm and subdued, the thought occurred to me that no matter how much I cry, he’s not coming back. I know that. I never believed that he could. But I hate that he’s gone.
"Photographs and memories
All the love you gave to me
Somehow it just can’t be true
That’s all I’ve left of you
But we sure had a good time
When we started way back when
Morning walks and bedroom talks
Oh how I loved you then"
–Jim Croce