I've been back from my vacation for a week now. Enough time for things to have returned to normal, probably. However, a couple of days before I came back here, one of my old friends passed away. We met during grade school. He was my first "boyfriend", in that way that you somehow mutually decide what 'cute' means and determine that it's all there in each other, for a brief moment. We probably held hands. There were notes, hand-written (he pressed his pencil very hard into the paper), and school pictures with earnest messages inscribed on the back. We "broke up" after not too long. We lost touch when he moved away. We caught back up, inevitably, on Facebook. He was all that's kind, forgiving, friendly. A tender-hearted, sensitive guy in the guise of a meat-head sports fan. A loving dad, dedicated and respectful husband, enormously considerate and tolerant friend. Attentive, smart, clever. Well-respected in his profession.
And he died. He was my age. He had not, to my knowledge, been sick.
I can't get over it. Of course, it's not my 'it' to get over, really. We hadn't seen each other in years, though I'd have loved to, had there been the opportunity. I always admired him, and had come to very much look forward to his continued presence (albeit electronic) in my life. But the sharpness of this grief, at times, seems unfair, or borrowed, or...I don't know. It's not inauthentic—I'm not sobbing all day, or blathering it all over everyone I see, and I'm certainly not pretending that this loss is only my loss. I think it's just that this sadness, and the sense that I'm missing out on the presence of someone amazing that I could have known better, had I tried, is more than I thought I could feel.
I thought I was getting better at not being in a position where I had to feel much of anything.
[the title quotation is by William Cullen Bryant, from 'Death of the Flowers', from Poems (1832 ed.)]
Part of "it" is yours to get over, of course. The part that knew him when you were both young. The part of your life that is now closed to everyone but yourself, since only the two of you shared those moments.
ReplyDeleteI should think that managing to not feel anything would be pretty close to death. The book I'm reading (on CD) now may be coloring my thoughts on this, but I really can't see how not feeling anything is a good thing in the long run.
Be good to yourself. Please?
It is totally okay to be sad. I'm sorry that you lost someone you knew.
ReplyDeleteEvery loss opens a part of us that has lost other people. I think it's all right to experience your grief as much as you feel it, especially since you are not seeing the widow or the kids (who are the only people who could say "what about ME?" to you about this). While you're at it, let yourself grieve for whatever is called up by this death. I agree with Cat that it's probably partly about having been children together. And I do think that an epistolary friend is still a friend. And to echo Cat, please take good care of yourself. Hugs.
ReplyDeleteThanks to each of you. It has been hard, feeling like I'm spinning in circles over this with no end in sight. It helps to know that someone is listening.
ReplyDeleteThere is a memorial service planned in a couple of weeks. I'd like to attend if I can; I think it'll help to be around others who are in the same spot I'm in.