A Memory of Grief
That Little Voice
Is this an ending or a beginning, or both? Tension and relief ooze from my shoulders as I wave goodbye to family members backing their pickups out of my driveway.
Must be the way that last dollop of toothpaste feels when it’s squeezed from a rolled and twisted tube.”
Starting with the death of my husband six days ago and ending with today’s funeral for Dad the horrendous week has depleted my bucket of energy and resolve.
“Can I sit down right here and melt into the concrete?”
That alternative holds more appeal than turning and confronting the silent house. Our home, no longer ours.
It takes more energy than I possess to face the challenge of accepting, adjusting and changing. The grieving process must wait. I’m not ready.
Carrying Jack’s doglet, I wander through each room of our new house, listening to the silence. The tears, I consigned to a wait bin in my heart, are no longer restricted.
Crying begins slowly as I visit the spaces we shared.
Through my sadness I smile at his favorite kitchen utensils: dangerously sharpened knives, never to be put in the dishwasher; the cast iron skillet cleaned and oiled a certain way I never mastered; stacks of paper plates and rolls of Bounty towels, his requirements for food preparation.
Whipping up scrupulous meals satisfied Jack’s culinary talents. His need for edible cuisine dictated his eagerness to ban me from the stove.
“Smart move,” I had assured him.
I wander into the bathroom and skim my hand over the bristles of his hairbrush remembering how he smoothed his thick, wavy hair before heading to his workshop to build authentic chuck wagons.
Peering into his closet, the sight of his three pairs of handmade boots, numerous black, white and straw cowboy hats, some for work, several for dress, and the line of crisply starched and pressed white shirts and worn jeans, accost me.
“Who will want his clothes?”
I crumble on our bed sobbing cradling the dog he loved. Chili was a gift I gave Jack three years ago when he was alone in Birmingham waiting for a new lung. His health deteriorating, he jokingly told folks this Cock-a-Poo served as his breathing air service dog mandating her constant presence.
Yes, Chili, we are going to miss him.
The quietness answering my gasps of grief and racking cries of anguish, echo through the house, offering no comfort. I am alone.
Damn. Will this pain of loss and sorrow suffocate me?
It must get better. I’m not the first woman to scatter her husband’s ashes, nor the only person whose father died 36 hours later. Am I?
The silence continues. The isolation, impenetrable.
Tears running down my face, I whisper my heartache: “Oh Jack, I’ll never see you again. God, I miss you”.
You will never lie here again, never hold me again, never kiss me again. never caress me again, never make me laugh again, never shout obscenities at Chili again. You will never… I’m drained of energy, thoughts, emotions, and collapse pulling the sheet over my feet, the doglet presses against my back.
Music interrupts my sleep. “A passing car?” The noise continues and I struggle to wake up. Stumbling to the living room, I search for a radio that must be on somewhere in the house.
Is someone here? Panic grips me. I’m alone, aren’t I? How did music start playing? Where is it coming from?
Slowly I recognize the artist: ChetAtkins, Jack’s favorite musician.
Filling the room with the strum of his guitar, the country and western king serenades me with “I’ll See You In My Dreams.”
I sink to the floor and burst out laughing.
“It’s nice to hear from you Jack,” I giggle. “I don’t know how you got this stereo hooked up, but thanks. Next time you visit could it be during daylight hours? This night visit scared the heck out of me.”
No response. But Chet plays on and I soak up Jack’s love and unorthodox appearance.
“Stay with me JV, as my life changes” I whisper.
Yep, this is an ending and a beginning.