Looking Up
Yesterday took me by surprise. The third anniversary of my wife’s death. I thought I was ready. I could see it coming. But I felt good. I was on the move. Getting things done. Planning. Then the day dawned. I got a few condolence texts and as I was walking down the drive to retrieve my trash can I wondered how my dad did it. Managed the sudden death of my mother, at 49, with my three brothers still at home. And I realized I never once talked to him about it, and that made me sad, and I spent the rest of the day in a bit of a mope.
It's funny how we waste those opportunities. I remember the death of my dad’s father when I was in the first grade. But I never talked to him about it, and I never talked to his mother about it. It happened. We cried. We got on with it. It would have been nice if someone had mentioned anything about the aftermath and what that was like. All I remember was that my grandmother seemed a happy lady and was always glad to see us, and my dad remarried, took care of my brothers, and stayed with his new wife until she passed away. And I remember the day she died. He cried. But then he got on with it and found another wife. A nice woman. And this time he was the first to go.
And now here I am, the day after, less mopey, less paralyzed. I have things to do, and I’ll do them. But it sure does seem as though I’ve entered the days of death and dying, and I doubt the future will ever be quite the same. After all, people I know are dropping by the score. Friends, family, family of friends. There’s a lot of it going on. But even though I’m into the bitters, there’s still a lot of sweetness to be found in this drink of life. And as long as I can get the cup to my lips, I’m going to drink, and drink deep.