What Would They Say To You?

Dealing With The Grief

This week marks the seventh anniversary of the old man’s passing and through the years I’ve written quite a bit about him, including marking this particularly, difficult occasion right here on these pages. I’ve dedicated a whole chapter to him in my book “The White Mountain.”

But I’ve never consolidated a collection of posts about him, so I thought that’s what I’d do today. What follows is a collection of essays dedicated to his passing that I wrote through the years.

The grief never seems to heal, of course, but as my world gets bigger, it does at least appear to shrink. Perhaps some of you face the same hole in your heart. Maybe you’ll hear the echo of your loved one in these words.

Do me a favor and drop their name in the comments below. If you can name them, you’ll never forget them.

Here’s what I know they would say to you if they could:

Don’t stop.

Just keep going.

I love you.

---

2017

I didn't know Ann, and as near as I could tell my dad didn't know her either. She lived above him at the center, second floor. Ann passed away on the same dad as my dad, and this afternoon as I pushed a cart full of his remaining possessions out of his room, the elevator door opened and a young man came out ahead of me, pushing a cart piled equally high with chairs, paintings and boxes. We looked at each other.

"Are you... the other..." the guy said his voice trailing off.

I nodded. "My dad."

"My grandma," he said. We shook hands, I don't know why. We didn't exchange names.

Then together we set off down the long corridor toward the front doors, pushing the physical remains of two lives. We walked silently, a little parade of mourning.

We walked by the little shrine and lit lamp to Ann and my dad.

And as we walked, the seniors parted - wheelchairs, walkers and canes clicking against the floor and chairs and walls. They watched us pass, again, silently, passively looking on as the memories of Joe and Ann rolled by.

Once at the door, I said, "Well, be strong, I'm sorry."

"You to," he said. "Good luck."

We shook hands again. I don't know why.

And as I wheeled the cart out into the sunlight, a small man wearing a cardigan sat in a wheelchair by the doors, legs crossed, wide wrap around sunglasses covering his eyes.

"Hi," I said.

He said nothing, just turned his back to me and wheeled himself back into the darkness, leaving me alone with lamps and chairs and a tv.

Our lives are filled with opportunities for connection, so many, but we don't know, how could we? I hope Ann had a good life. I wish I could have connected with dad once more.

Still, it's nice to think he had a companion on his final journey. Little steps. Breathe. Forward.

---

2020

Three year anniversary today that the old man passed... I dunno, it doesn't get better it seems, the hole isn't filling back up. Looks like just learning to live with the empty space will be the way to get through. Funny how during this year of anxiety, every memory feels so loaded. Like the nerve endings have been exposed and we keep touching the wound, just to feel connection, even if the connection is pain. Deep breath. Close your eyes. Center.

After he passed, I discovered a collection of jokes that my dad had written down, little scribbles to remind him at parties or gatherings, little ice breakers. Funny part is they were just cribs, not whole jokes, which is what made it better. Lines like:

"Elephant sees naked man."

"Two nuns in Rome"

"Touches wife's cheek"

"Man flying kite with son."

It's poetry, man, these un-jokes. There are hundreds of them, in a small brown, plastic pocket case. Some day, I plan on writing a poem out of each line.

Someday. When it's all less raw. When I can put together the pieces, but maybe pieces is all we'll ever have. Anyway, someday.

Today, I just see a lake and a wet dock and smell my dad's flannel and the warmth of his nearness and my mom taking the picture, because time has no meaning if you don't want it too. Just remember, just remember, he wouldn't want me back there too often or for too long. He'd want me here, looking ahead. He'd want to be in my rear view.

I get that dad. But not today. Today I'm with you.

---

2021

Four years today since the old man died and I'm here to tell you, the grief just hangs there, just follows you. That hole doesn't fill up, you can't cover it in memories and life celebrations. It's just there and you have to live with it.

And he'd hate this anyway, this looking back. From where I write this, I can see my daughter playing one of her games, her hair a frazzled, uncombed bird nest, eyes wide, waiting for me to move forward with the day. Move forward. That's what he'd say. Stick with the important things. She's important, I'm not, he'd say.

But if he were here, I'd tell him that it's all important - that the connections between, for example, that baptismal picture of him holding my fingers as I take those first steps into the water and the moments where I hold his grand daughter's hands as she climbs a boulder are a direct, bright line. Walk away, sure, but don't forget where you started.

But remembering hurts. So there we are. Learning to live with the hurt, to find the lessons, to be grateful that Little Bean still has a set of grandparents to draw from.

Grief can be baked into memory, but since forgetting has never been an option, we'll just head out today, find an adventure. Maybe it'll rain, but that's part of life as well. Maybe I'll have another chance to hold her hand as she walks just a little bit further away from me. But that's ok. Maybe dad would just shake his head and tell me to stop with the words and just go already. So that's what we'll do. We'll just go.

---

2023

Woke up this morning feeling tired and achy, then realized later that today is the six year anniversary of the old man passing. I didn't remember, but I guess my body did.

Spent the morning sipping coffee in the kitchen and listening to the kids play in the sun room. That hole just never gets smaller, you know, grief. Most days I can live with it, ignore it, forget about it. But sometimes, I catch a glimpse and that's it - I'm just walking along enjoying the views and the next instant I'm flat on my face not even knowing how I got here.

Dad would be horrified by all this reflection of course. He wasn't a philosopher, he didn't spout life advice, but he did understand moving on was important. He'd likely just shake his head and say "Don't worry about me, you have better things to do."

Better things. He called my daughter Little Dolly.

I can hear her voice above the others. The dog has joined in and they are all howling now. Something crashes, they all laugh. My daughter, who knows I'm listening, yells, "It's ok daddy, nobody is hurt!"

I sigh and shake off the cobwebs and go to make sure Little Dolly is fine