being back

I get on her orange bike. The cruser with the old school breaks. I pedal slowly down the lane.  I’m scared.  Scared to face it. I go around the corner, already the Coppertone mixing with tears.  I pass the corner mart where kid allowances bought sweet tarts and gum.  I follow behind my dad.

We enter.  Pass a grandmother, a father, a soldier. Old flowers, laminated rain proof cards, and worn stuffed animals make up tiny shrines.  The sun hits so perfectly.  A plane passes.   We get off the bikes, and look right. 

It’s the first time I’ve been back since it happened. And seeing her name brings it all back.  It’s like your hymen of grief gets ripped open and it hurts all over again. 

You look over at your Dad.  Noting the empty spot where his name will go someday.  Neither can speak.  All you can do is touch it.  Run your finger over the name, the date, the raised words and hope that you can feel something human.  Anything.  But you can’t.  Tiny words escape your chocking breath like ‘why,’ ‘how,’ ‘fuck.’ Words your heart thinks you’re saying for the first time, but ones your brain knows are answerless. So you just shut up and sob.  

She’s everywhere.  Not just in pictures lining the hurricane strong walls or the silly old timey pictures you took as a family, but in the air the minute my plane landed, in the drive past the beach where she caught us girls sneaking out with boys, in my father’s distant eyes. My brain fucks with me, thinking she’s just at the grocery store picking up garlic for her famous fish marinade.  Or in the back bedroom throwing on her shoes so we can head to the gym.  At night I lay in my twin bed, like I did as a kid, thinking I hear her laughing with my Dad through the wood walls.  But it’s not.  It’s nothing.  Just a dull void where her voice used to be.  I swear late late late last night I heard something.  A rustle around of something.  A woosh through a hallway. I don’t know.  Is it something or does my brain just want it to be something?

Key West is still my true paradise. Where this Midwestern kid got lost in coral reef explorations, baby oil, and shell jewelry. Where wine cooler sips and body glove bikinis made memories to last for memories.  I was a lucky kid with a family that played hard. Ya know, I still am a lucky kid.  And cancer can’t take any of it.

So I sit here now.  This time without any buffers.  Alone. Feeling every bit of pain deep in my bones.  All the times you wished you called more, or went to visit, or weren’t a moody fuck, just circles around your head like cartoon stars and zigzags. The anger, the rage, the injustice of losing people too soon is a sickening pit that nighttime makes worse. I think back for a second to an old friendship I had with someone where recently I heard she talked shit about me.  It's so funny how mad you can get about all that stuff.  How it feels so real.  How much time spent rolling in the details of it all.  

But right now, as I type and tear, I realize THESE moments, THESE raw fucking sad moments, are what builds true grit.  It makes you stand straight in auditions when a producer won’t look your way or when some ‘somebody’ makes you feel like a no ‘nobody.’ When someone passes on your script or someone else doesn't like your eye color, you can shrug it off and walk out head high.  This grief, this REAL shit, is like a trump card that you throw down in the chaos of everyday life and say ‘Ha ha. See life? I know the secret. And none of this shit matters.’  Because what really matters, at least today, late at night, tucked away in the Southern most part of The United States, with her expired face cream on, a Harry Potter notebook and a crumbled yoga schedule from the local place on my bedside, and some beat up flip flops tossed about---for ME---is human relationships.  Building and cherishing the ones I do have and not chasing the ones I don’t.  

Call your parents.  Ask them how they are.  Tell them you like them a lot. 

They really aren’t here forever.

Elbow and Send. 

 

Comments

[nashira]

Dear Annie, it's difficult to live and love people with that particular mix of compassion, awareness of their/our brief time on this planet and happiness. When I get that "this won't last forever" feeling, I feel anxious, sad. I've read your posts, each one of them, and even though you feel sad, there's always some kind of joy, of special light that permeates the sadness and reaches people around you. I really admire your strength and generosity. I'm sending you a big, big hug.

[AJ]

Back up your blog, or print this page, or write this in a spiral notebook.

Don't lose this piece of writing. This post is -- important.

[alicein1derland]

This post made me cry. Your feelings jump out of the page, and it hurts to experience this with you. I'm glad that you write about it because to bottle it up is so toxic. To re-visit the pain is really tough.... and anticipating HAVING to re-visit it creates nervous knots in the stomach.

I've not been able to return to my dad's grave. I absolutely cannot picture him there.... in that dark cold box in the ground..... because it's too harsh, alone and quiet. And he was never quiet. He loved to sing, and he laughed really loud belly laughs. I'd rather picture him stooping on the back porch with his pipe in his mouth and the shoe brush in his hands, cleaning his patent leathers. Or playing with one of the kittens under the elm tree in the backyard, and getting twisted around until he fell over. Or excitedly tearing through his Christmas presents, like a big kid, and opening his before any of us could even get started. Or stroking my hair when I was heartbroken over some boy that hurt me. Isn't that what we're supposed to do.... think about all the things that made us love them?? Good and happy thoughts that make you smile and recall cool memories. But it's hard to always do what you're supposed to do..... And that pain - it's always lurking, invading those happy thoughts, and the tears come.

[annie]

nashira-thank you for reading. and thanks for the hug.

aj- back it up? that sounds like smart nerd talk. uh, how. i really would like to know.

alicein1-i can hear your dad laugh now. thank you SOO much for sharing your memories. they are so important.

[ephany]

Amen. I miss my mommy too.

[eric shanks]

AJ's right. Save this...and all your other posts while you're at it. I just did a quick google search and came back with this: http://www.flyteblog.com/flyte/2007/07/how-to-backup-y.html

E

[cryssyer]

Just beautiful. Thank you for opening your heart to us.

[doog]

Both of my parents are gone now. I miss them every day. :hug:

[annie]

ephany- hug. missing mom's is tough this time of year.

shanks- thanks for the link. i'm on it.

cryssyer-thanks for reading!

doog-sending love your way. both. wow.

[Melissa]

I had to sign up for an account just so I could post a comment. I have been reading your blog since "the bet" and even though I started because of your hilarious roasting of Wheaton and Nickerblogianson, I stayed because of the heart you put in posts like this.

I miss my Dad. He was sick for a good two years before he died. He's been gone 13 years now. I was only 26 when he died, long before I got married or had kids, and every time one of my kids smiles, or giggles or does something amazing (which they always seem to do) I wish with my whole being that my Daddy were here to see them; to enjoy them, to smile at me and tell me with his eyes that I did good.

It is never gone, the pain, but it does make you realize that there are only a few things that truly matter. We are here for such a short time. Fill every one of those days with the love of your family and friends.

Thanks annie.

[annie]

melissa-no, thank you! "...wish with my whole being that my Daddy were here to see them; to enjoy them, to smile at me and tell me with his eyes that I did good."

wow. thank you for writing that. he is looking.

[Melissa]

Thanks, Annie. Your comments made me smile and made me feel like, ya, maybe Dad is watching all of it.

Ironic enough, I actually posted my comment to you on what would have been my parents' anniversary (Dec. 17th). Probably part of the reason my Dad was in the forefront of my mind.

Have a wonderful holiday.