Mourning

The time to mourn is short that best becomes / The military dead. We lift and fold the flag / Lay bare the coffin with its written tag / And march away. Behind, four others wait / To lift the box, the heaviest of loads. / The anesthetic afternoon benumbs, sickens our senses, forces back our talk. (Karl Shapiro, “Elegy for a Dead Soldier”)

The funeral service for Mary’s dad was only ten days ago. The ground, packed down around his urn’s vault, is still settling, the replaced sod still seeks roots. The summer storms lash the stone marker, the crickets and frogs chirp in the sun, another day, then another day.

We each have begun our own return to what mom calls “the new normal,” back to work, back to the rest of our lives. But we cannot shake how different it feels. The kids and I flew back the next evening; Mary stayed on a little longer, before returning to the office and the to-do lists that don’t involve her father’s estate.

But those to-dos are still top of mind. There’s lots to be done with paperwork and setting up the next stages of mom’s life. There’s a camper trailer to sell (anyone interested in a fifth-wheel?), and a truck (funny story about that I’ll have to tell you sometime), and a John Deere tractor or two, and that’s before we look at the absolute piles and stacks of novels that Dad had around, which won’t be needed anymore. Or his tools, or his clothes, or his Army uniform.

And we begin mourning who could not do so at the time. We begin aching because we no longer have to wear our “the strong one” or “devoted child” masks all the time. We begin feeling the incredible, undescribeable exhaustion that mourning brings, and the reluctance to do much of anything some days. We find ourselves feeling emptiness that we never really thought existed. We keep waiting for Alan Funt to jump out, or Ashton Kutcher to admit we’ve been punk’d, so we can have a good laugh and get back to the way it’s supposed to be. Only it won’t be. There’s no do-over, just like there’s no Easy button for this.

And so we plod on. We make our plans to get back up to see mom in a couple of weeks, because there’s work to be done and quite frankly we want to be there, we want to be a part of it, despite whatever madness may be happening back here at the office with stuff that, really, just isn’t as important anymore.

We will go on. It will get a little easier, each day. It will, eventually, stop being so front-of-mind, so searing, so present. And when it does, it will be fresh cause for mourning.

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