Grief is a very private process for people. People grieve in different ways, just as people sort through other forms of emotional distress by their own methods. Yet, we invade one another's grief because hearts are intertwined, and when those we love hurt, we hurt, too; we feel helpless that we cannot help heal those hurts, and so we reach blindly for a certain stockpile of phrases like, "I'm sorry for your loss," and "They're in a better place," and, of course, "Are you alright?"
Now, don't get me wrong. I don't mean to belittle the kindness and compassion that people express when their loved ones hurt. On the contrary, people need one another, and times of grief would be intolerably isolating without others to share in pain, just as happiness is only real when it is shared. Emotions are only valid when others feel them, too. But all the same, I think it's kind of silly to ask someone if they're alright when their heart hurts. Obviously, they're not alright. But I suppose we say such things because there's nothing else to say. It's an outlet for the helplessness we feel when we cannot fix the situation, when we cannot mend a wound whose cause had nothing to do with us.
Writing is my catharsis. Any emotion I feel is inevitably channeled into words, be they fiction or academic. But instead of writing out the paper that's due in two days, or working on the articles whose deadline is rapidly approaching, or even working on my novel, I'm on Facebook, writing a basically useless note about nothing. But it's just the act of writing that helps, sometimes. Maybe this is all I need.
One exersize that has been helpful to me over the years is writing letters that the addressee will never read. I guess that's even truer here, when those to whom I write no longer breathe. There were some things I never said to them...
Mick, I miss you far more than I thought I would. I'll miss having you but a block away when I go observe gators in the canal, and I'll miss your utterly ridiculous accent. I always wanted to visit your house in Jersey, but considering you once packed a suitcase full of steaks to take back to the U.K., I'll bet your hometown food wasn't all that good. I'll miss your constant drunken bitching about visa renewal and customs. And while it's not really an admirable quality, you were one amazing drinker. I don't know a single other person who can down nine bloody marys at breakfast time and drive home to uncork a bottle of wine without being phased in the least. I wonder if I ever had a conversation with you completely sober. I wonder if you were ever completely sober. It sure aged you well, man. No one would ever have guessed you weren't even fifty. But you were one enjoyable companion. You never thought I was merely overambitious or prideful. You always had the faith that I could get there, and I regret immensely that you won't be around when I do. My heart goes out to Tina; I wish there was something I could do for her in light of your untimely, unexpected farewell. I'll miss you, you know. I hope I'll see you again someday.
Grandaddy. I almost drove into a pole when Dad called to tell me that you'd passed today. I regret that I couldn't know you better; that I couldn't hear all your stories. I wish I knew the tales behind your many tattoos. I wish I'd told you what a brilliant logician you are, and how much I respected you. I remember all those Christmases I spent at your house in Black Forest, and your enormous Christmas tree. I remember your deep, unreserved laugh. I remember with some distaste your affinity for flatulence. I remember when you moved down to Florida, and oh, God, all your wonderful food. You were such a fantastic cook. That's a gift you've given me, I suppose. You were the one who taught me to make creme brulee. You also taught me about our family history. I remember when you republished our genealogical record and gave me a copy, saying that the passion for history had skipped a generation in my father. I remember how passionate you were about our bloodline, and how proud you were of me when I finally tracked down our family crest and motto. Mannus hiec inimica tyrannus, Grandaddy. I'll be getting our crest tattooed on my calf, just so you know. I always admired your faith. You never seemed to waiver, even for an instant, even at the end, that God's timing and plan were perfect. I remember being simply amazed as a child that you were so good-humored and so faithful to God. I never told you these things. I regret that. I try to tell the people in my life how much they mean to me, and I never told you. I'm so sorry for Grandmother right now. She's without her soul mate, now. Without her husband, her completion. I cannot fathom her hurt, and I am helpless to mend her. Oh, Grandaddy. I can't really believe you're gone. I'll miss you more than I can say. I wish so much that we'd had more time together.
Well, that's all, I guess. There's little more that can be said, and less to be done. But that's grief for you, isn't it?
