Reading a book on grief, I learn that there is no right way to grieve. I have been reading a lot of books about loss and grief lately, some spiritual, some experiential, all from people who have shared the loss of someone close. What I still am surprised by is how intensely and how many ways my sons and I can be buffeted by the tiniest thing-my son's realization in the shower that each minute takes him farther away from her; finding out that she was a finalist in interviewing for an internship at Laika; the diploma that she received two days before, the coffee cup that she loved to use; a question from a client at work that breaks my heart anew or that I have no patience for. The rude stranger whose comment sends me into spasms of silent sobbing and self-questioning when I arrive home, tight-lipped and lock myself in my room. It makes one son wonder if I am angry with him. Driving home can also cause a complete meltdown if I take the wrong route and see where she went to college, her favorite bakery. The sunflower that she planted is suffering in the fire-thickened smoky air, its sad blooms alerting me that I feel like I failed her, that I am failing her again.
We still haven't had a memorial for her. Covid and sheltering in was the first reason for postponing. Then I had surgery. But people have recently pushed me to coordinate this, citing their need to process their own grief. It's insurmountable and guilt wracking. It "should" be done. I feel selfish not wanting this finality, and my sons, their father doesn't really want to even discuss this, each for their own reason. How can we think of saying goodbye to her? She was not supposed to end. She was supposed to send her lavender blooms to friends around the country. She was supposed to protest racial inequality, to go to protests. She was supposed to interview at Laika, to create art and music. To help me wrap the bandages around me, joking about my flat chest. She could have rallied her brother on while he adapted to online summer camps and maybe worked beside him. How do we memorialize this beautiful, combative, loving, creative spirit when inside I am screaming at the loss of a life that I would gladly swap for my own? Will the words stick in my throat on the way out of my mouth? The words are not enough, yet they are too much right now.
June Lake, Washington State
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