From the Fold

(written last night)

 

It's 3am and I should be sleeping. For the last two weekends, I've spent the morning hours of Saturday night/Sunday morning wide eyed and bushy tailed, "staring directly at the sun". As incongruous as it seems, there is a certain comfort and sense of necessity to feeling the reality and sincerity of our loss. After all, it is through recognition-squaring off and facing the pain-that we may one day find reconciliation.

 

For whatever reason, Saturday seems to welcome the richness, and completeness of grieving the myriad emotions involved with losing Mom and Craig within 3 months. I suspect it has something to do with the absence of other tasks to distract the mind, but a large part of me looks for them-looks for Mom and Craig to keep me company. It's a time to become closer to them whatever it takes, even if that means inviting the sadness. I find myself talking to them more, not in a running dialogue but parroting common phrases like Mom's "Hey mom! Hey What!" response, or Craig's "Oh yeah? Cool", statements. I can hear their voices, their banter, their praise. Their voices speak to me as if they were standing at arm's reach. I can imagine them perfectly as if they were holograms or, better, with me as they always had been. 

These dreams are a reminder of how hard it is to adequately explain what it is like to lose two of the most important people in my life over a matter of months. Mom and Craig were part of my "head count" and I theirs. They called me, checked in on me, were interested in my life, and the interest was mutual. We accounted for one another on nearly a daily basis if only to check on each other's day.  To lose that only exaggerates the sense of loneliness.

 

I miss them. That phrase seems trite and generic as if that feeling of missing them is a temporary condition that can be resolved when they come home. In the past, it would be that simple. Mom would come home from a conference; Craig would come home for the holidays. Therein lies the deception of that phrase:  the palpable hope for resolution remains, yet there is no solution. They will never come home.  We will never again ask "how was your day" to Mom or Craig.  That burning desire to tell them something neat or funny will just have to be. It's strange to think that I now actively draw from memory the image of my mom and brother while others still have theirs. It's still too abstract to believe that Craig and Mom don't exist. There's a sense of longing when I hear my friends speak of talking to their mom's or their siblings, and part of me still feels like I can do the same.

 

It's days like Saturday when they do exist. They run freely through my mind and pull distant memories from the fold. I remember the music videos that were playing when we tagged along with Craig for one of his swim meets in Enid; Mom was the willing chauffeur and active cheering section. She rarely missed a meet even when the daughters grew into the sport. I remember her keeping her own time log and helping wherever she was needed. She'd keep track of our events and would cheer as we competed.  She was our only spectator when Jill and I swam in Oklahoma's first All State swimming competition.

She supported us in other endeavors.  I remember the drive to Tulsa to take the ACT; Mom would snooze in the parking lot while we took the test. And, when we'd shop at the mall, we'd nearly always grab dinner at a local Italian restaurant as a daughter/mom bonding ritual. Whether it was to shop, to take an academic test, to swim, or to drive us to school after we missed the bus, Mom was always their in support.

 

Other memories crop up.  I remember watching Mom kick Craig's ass in arm wrestling when we were little, essentially throwing Craig over her shoulder. (Mom played for keeps). I also remember the assortment of games and sports we'd play with Craig, ranging from secret spy games complete with morse code to building forts and playing with muscle men, from basketball to football games. I remember him palming our heads as Jill and I would play (translate: beat him) in basketball. More times than not, we'd find ourselves tossed in the bushes after what we thought was a good, clean game. Sure, sometimes Jill and I would have to resort to pinching to get a "W", but who doesn't resort to street tactics from time to time?

 

Most poignant, however, are those mental snapshots of the last few years:  Craig running around the cross country track; Mom bee bopping to her eclectic music playing on the stereo; or the last moments of their lives. The memories play forward like a video reel, keeping Mom and Craig near even if just in thought. Recently, the need to be with them -- near them -- is so intense that I actively say good night to them and invite them into my dreams. It's uncanny; I remember telling Mom and Craig that I'd look for them in my dreams before they passed away. I don't' think I knew then how palpable and desperate a feeling that would become.

 

It's still an unaccepted reality that they no longer exist. Being "near them" heightens the tension between the irrational feeling that they're still here, and the profound and overwhelming sense of loss. Still, I will keep them near whatever it takes, hoping never to forget, even if it means diving further into the fold where all the memories reside, along with the pain. ~E