Death is perhaps the most abstract, elusive, concept I have ever coped with. It is sadly "The Great Unifier" in my West Texas family. As Aunt Norma so crassly noted at your funeral:
"We're the family that only gets together when somebody dies."
She said what I was thinking.
Strangers came together to commemorate you; some were blood related.
While I am sure they all loved you--no one knew you, or loved you like I did.
For 24 years of my life--you were my parent.
While others were scrunching their noses; tilting their heads trying to muster up a memory--my brain was an avalanche. I had to physically put my hands on my head just to slow 12,096,827 moments of you.
I was surprised that my mourning first manifested itself in numbness.
On Sunday, I was getting ready for church when mom sent me a text message telling me you were gone. Blaring in the background was a Netflix documentary on The Bermuda Triangle. I simply sat the phone down and went back to what I was doing.
"Okay."
I said out loud to myself.
I gathered my things, turned off my laptop, and went to worship.
By Tuesday I was certain I was a sociopath.
I did not feel anything.
During a gruelling four hour flight on a plane to the desert, my soul began to dehydrate. I got off the plane agitated and overwhelmed. I wanted to see no one. I did not want to be touched. I wanted to speak to no one.
My eyelids felt heavy as warm bodies overwhelmed me on my left and right. Family members surrounded me; I inhaled the breath they left and the scent of their thick perfumes. Most of the time I did not know who was speaking to me. I would simply nod to assure them that I was coherent, and occasionally tried to identify them by their dialect, body language, and social interactions.
I had never been to a showing before.
The smell of the funeral home was distinct.
I immediately knew you would have enjoyed its floral notes.
I put off seeing you for as long as I could.
I used the restroom, engaged in a conversation with Aunt Sarah, had coffee, and searched for my mother. When she was nowhere to be found, I decided to find Uncle Danny who was in the showing room.
I walked in alone.
I have only been to a handful of funerals in my life.
When I was a child, an elderly man's embalmed body scared me so much I ran to the nearest stranger and clutched his legs, crying and trembling. I did not know the man, but according to his family--he looked very different after death than when was alive. This was the case with my great grandparents. They too were not themselves after death: only breathless, spiritless, earthly substance.
Having briefly experienced the scathes of distant death, I was certain I was emotionally prepared to handle yours.
I quickly realized it was not the same.
I knew none of those people.
I did not know my great-grandparents.
I had not memorized their moles, irises, the texture of their skin, their eyelashes, and the thin film of their contacts [or the fleck of gold in their glasses] like I had yours. I knew what your heartbeat felt like, the soft warmth of your collarbone rising and falling when you would hug me, how sometimes your hands hurt me when you would hold me or embrace me because quite frankly: You were relentlessly rough [and--you wanted to passionately love the life right out of me]. I knew your toothpaste tasted like Big Red Gum, that your favorite perfume was Halston, that the mole by your eye was your trademark, that you loved Sun Ripened Raspberry lotion; that you always ordered iced tea. I knew your thread-spools were color coordinated in the third drawer of your sewing chest. I knew how your fingers looked inside a thimble, the way your lip curled when you held a needle and thread in your mouth, and the way the sun hit your back when you would walk out the stain-glass front door--down the walk by Poppy's dried up garden--to get the mail. I knew how hateful you were when you were angry--and how some of the things you said to me were so mean, they still make my skin hurt.
They painted your nails mauve. I pictured what you would have said about it: Something hysterical, or critical...probably both. The thought of you being repulsed by it made me smirk despite my sorrow.
Your hands
Did not feel like
Your hands: That would always grab my knee in church firmly when you were trying to draw my attention toward something hysterical, or ridiculous, or repulsive without uttering a word.
Your hands: That would tap on the gear shift of your vehicle as you sang: "Thish ish the end...thish is the ennddd....of the inno-shensh."
You did not have a lisp or a denture problem.
Why did you intentionally pronounce your S's like that every time you tuned up?
After the showing we came back to the house. I snuck away for a moment in search for your clothes. I suppose Poppy and Mom moved them to the side closet, because I distinctly remember you having them in the walk in. I turned the lights off, crawled inside beneath them and wept like a child. I wanted to be surrounded by the smell of you; I wanted to bathe in it before it faded--before the closet was empty--before I flew back to Nashville where I would thrust myself back into my usual avoidance of pain by over-stimulation, and social engagement.
I think you sent Uncle Mack to me specifically. I have always felt he was a gift from the Lord, but this time--I think you knew I would need someone. You must have known he loves poetry like I do. I felt the peace of Christ in his embrace; when everything was fast paced--jittery, and bumpy, I could stand outside a conversation between him and Aunt Sarah and be overcome by peace. I felt your love through them, and I am amazed at how you are still protecting me even though you are gone. I shared my flight back to Dallas with Aunt Joyce. Thank you for that too--it was smooth transition.
Though I felt a moment of absolute hopelessness on my 5 hour flight back to Nashville--it was simply because the sun set. Trapped by a window seat, I was triggered by the dark in a dim plane. I realized I could not call you when I landed.
I realized:
I will never hear your voice again.
Frantically, I squirmed and started weeping. I struggled in my seatbelt. I wanted to get off the plane--to jump, to dive...to die. I began hyperventilating. You were my home.
I will never hear your voice again outside of one voicemail I have left of you.
I came back to Nashville and tried to engage in the activities we always did together. I went to the fabric store and put my nose up to the crisp cottons. My fingers traced the "paper towel" material that you always made into sundresses. I studied the hooks and buttons and ached for your glass jar of buttons that we used to sort by color, size, texture, and style. I went to Green Hills and pretended it was San Antonio. After reflecting on the memories on all our travels, and glistening city adventures I realized that the magic was never in the activity we were doing. It was never about the money we spent, or the pretty things we bought, or the fashion shows we had for Poppy. It was about you and I. You were the magic in my life.
Now, you are gone.
I will never have a reason to go back to Austin, or San Antonio. I will never see the lights on the river walk with you at Christmas again, or make late-night Wal*Mart trips at Thanksgiving to purchase superfluous things [like avocado peelers]. We will never again max out Poppy's credit card with over-priced shoes and sugary Starbucks drinks while perusing Lakeline Mall.
I never added you on Facebook. I had a sneaking suspicion you would be disappointed in me, and the way I am not currently a member of a Free Will Baptist Church, or the way I cannot stop getting tattoos. But since you have been gone I have written you several messages telling you the truth about all these things. I hope you can love me anyway.
I hope you will get around to reading them.
I can hear your disgust on what I am about to say but I read a Rob Bell book on the way home from Lubbock. It is called: "What We Talk About When We Talk About God."
I know, I know, Nana...he's a kook...but hear me out:
He talks about this thing called the ruach of God.
Sounds satanic already doesn't it?
Fear not.
It basically surrounds finding the essence of God in everything.
He gives examples such as being engaged in what is happening around us--being present; recognizing the way the rough grains in the wood floor feel beneath our feet, the way our morning coffee tastes, and the way our morning shower pelts down on our backs.
He makes notes on absence and how it calls us to live in the present.
After all,
"You don't know what you've got til it's gone..."
He notes [and I am paraphrasing]: If one is asked on any given day if they love their spouse or child [and to what degree], they would most likely say a 10 on a scale of 1-10. Now, they might go home, piddle on Facebook and never engage with their wife or child. Still--it is a general, mutual understanding that everyone in the household is loved.
When tragedy strikes, our love scale changes. Someone who was loved at a 10 on a scale of 1-10 is suddenly loved at a 4,000. The intangibility of someone makes them all the more lovable.
That resonated with me because my spirit aches for you. I cannot count the days I went without calling you. I am overcome by so much guilt that I did not contact you in time. I did not write you. I did not come see you.
Had I been unselfish, I could have been present.
You wouldn't have come out of a coma at the sound of my name only to be disappointed by a picture of me on Aunt Norma's phone.
You would have opened your eyes to me
And seen me.
Nashville feels empty without you, and you never spent much time here.
Anything West of here just feels like a wound.
I do not know what I believe about heaven, and if you can really hear me, or if you can really read this. The ruach of God today has been so present--and in it, I have seen strands of you.
Death is strange. It has tricked me into believing: I honestly do not know if you knew that I loved you.
I hope you know I do.
