I understand that death isn’t easy to talk about. It’s skirted out of social settings and it’s glossed over with hunky-dory phrases that have come to make me queasy.
Hang in there, they say.
He’s still with you.
I get it, I do. I get that there’s no right time to ask, and that there are no right words to say. I imagine people outlining the conversation they wish to have with me in their minds; they set up talking points, bullets, planned pauses, transition sentences that carry a closing paragraph to an opening paragraph. They hope to get it right, as if it were as black and white as a times table test or as serious as choosing a life partner.
Dry throat, itchy eyes, a nervous and uncertain laugh–sounds like a day in the life of a middle schooler who suffers from acute allergies.
Why does death make us so uncomfortable?
I think most people get cautious and clammy around me because they worry that they’ll set me off. That they’ll hand me a present, only for me to pull away brown paper and unveil a ticking box. A bomb. Wires tangled like hair caught in a windstorm. A flood. There is no end in sight, oh God, this poor aching girl.
Friends, it’s not true. I want to talk about it, and I am neither inconsolable nor crippled by the thoughts and emotions that take turns leading this recovery Waltz. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3.
I’m also fairly certain many people are both curious and caring about how I’m doing. About what travels through the mind of someone experiencing loss so grave and so fresh. So here goes, my new Sunday night tradition, in honor of my father and in honor of my life worth living.
It’ll be a little series. It’s going to be raw, and it’s going to wrap up all that warm, uncomfortable, striking, juicy and confusing slop in one tortilla of truth. It’s going to offer a glimpse into grief through my senses. All 5. All of them half hardwired with George’s DNA. All working together in fluctuating states of balance, imbalance and compensation.
George’s Girl Takes 5.
[A recap of the week’s sounds, smells, sights, touches, and tastes from a girl who lost her father but not herself.]
What do you say, sounds like something you’d be into? Do tell and do stay tuned.