In the Deserts of the Heart

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

~W.H.Auden 

I am no stranger to death.
 I am familiar with the funeral parlor, the quiet, efficient men in dark suits guiding you gently toward a book, a pen, a room, a handshake, a hug. The dark clothes, the ill-fitting suits, awkward shoulders of borrowed jackets, the long skirts of formal and sanctioned sadness. The gleaming pine and oak and brass-trimmed caskets, the occasional upholstered chairs, the too-bereft family cloistered in corners.

I am no stranger to grief. 
I know all the faces of loss: the sudden, confused grief; the sadness of parting; the delicate relief from lingering illnesses; the utter bereavement. Loss of a grandparent. Loss of an aunt. Loss of a child. Loss of a spouse. I have seen all their faces: illness, accident, age, suicide. The bands that hold your heart in place snap, unleashing tears that burn holes inside your chest.

I know all too well the rituals.
The hymns.Amazing Grace. How Great Thou Art. On Eagle's Wings.
The prayers. May perpetual light shine upon them.  
The weeping pulpit where we try to encapsulate love into words that float away on the air.
The slide shows. A smiling child.Graduation. Bride and groom. Children. Anniversaries.

There was the slide of the two of us- ca. 1989- me, with a perm, her with golden hair, our arms wrapped around each other, smiling. For her history was my history, her family my family, my children, her children. Those things, if you are wise enough, divorce cannot undo. 

The comings and goings. Hands on the casket now, as we bring them in. Then, again as we let them go.
 (That's usually when I weep- the finality of the casket leaving, escorted out by family for the last time - for this means this is over. Now we are left with coffee and sandwiches and cake and perhaps an hour or two of our shared sorrow. Then, we go off to  bear our weight alone.)

 And now, a young man, a student, an athlete, a musician, a brother, a friend, killed in a smowmobile accident. And again, the heart breaks open those wounds that have not yet healed.

I am no stranger to death, to grief. I know the rituals, the comings and goings of death.
But I need more time. I don't know how to catch my breath between these falling bookends. And I am not alone. We gasp- for breath, for shock, for life- for hope. For sudden and permanent loss.

Thank you friends, for all the kindness and love that you have sent. Grief can't be wrapped up in a packet of time, nor can it be denied. It's a process of letting go, of learning just how important that person was to you. Then going and living- really living- with their memory carried inside you.

“Although the wind ...”

Although the wind

blows terribly here,

the moonlight also leaks

between the roof planks

of this ruined house.

 

  Izumi Shikibu
trans. Jane Hishfield and Mariko Akitani