My Sister called me this evening. She said that she did not know why, but she felt compelled to call. She had forgotten what the date was. She forgets every year. Why should she want to remember such a painful day? Even though her memory blocks the date, her heart refuses. Thus, without consciously know why, she calls me every 23rd of October. She calls me on the day that Jeremy died, in 1992.
He haunts us. Not in a bad, way, mind you. Just in such a way, that my sister, having forgotten what day it is, feels compelled to call her big brother.
We consoled each other. We laughed at stories about Jeremy. We laughed at stories about our dead parents. Dead people offer so many good stories. It is like finding chocolate behind a box of cereal, when no one else is around except for your sister. So you both eat it all, gleefully delighting in your loot. And still, I would gladly give up those dead people stories, for live people stories.
A friend at work reminded me that in order to mourn, you must have loved the dead person. She is right. And death still sucks.
My son’s death still bites far too deeply. And yet, I can laugh at stories of his life.
Thanks Jeremy, for your life, for your laughter, for all that you have gifted me. I miss you. Come and visit me. Maybe we can play tag again.
2 comments:
Mushroom your're a beautiful person and a beautiful writer.
Love,
Marianna
Mushroom: I always find comfort in your writings. I miss my father deeply too. He died the day before Jeremy just one year ago. The pain has not gotten easier in this past year. I know we find comfort in laughing about their memories but you are right,it would be better to have them here with us to laugh with and at!! Love, DEBSTAR
Post a Comment