Grief is exhausting. On a rational level, I know time will help. Memories become glue; happy and sad times stick out in your mind, offering comfort rather than sorrow. But.
But, I am tired of waking up in the morning with dried tears on my face.
But, I continue to reach for my phone to text her daily, only to be reminded over and over there is no one to respond.
But, I have 9 saved voicemails I never listened to, because I always called her right back, and now they sit, unopened, because I am too raw to hear her voice.
But, I opened one of her books yesterday (Flannery O'Connor's letters, for those who are interested), and was confronted with her handwriting that I knew so well-- the tiny, introverted, perfectly formed Catholic print that never dared slant, despite her being left-handed.
But, Easter is coming and I have no one to send that stupid chocolate rabbit joke to. You know, the one where someone ate the ear off one and took a bite out of the bottom of the other. "My butt hurts." "What? I can't hear you."
But, my oldest child turned nine last month, and it was the first time she was not there. And then it struck me that my youngest child will turn three in the summer, and he will never really remember her, except through our stories.
And I have stories. Thirteen plus years of stories, five years of which we shared an office daily. In that office, our job was to assure the quality of life for intellectually disabled adults. To put it bluntly, we spent a lot of time with retards; both the ones who had the disability and the ones who were supposed to be helping them. Trust me, I have stories. Everywhere I go, everything I see, do, or hear has something attached to her. It is a Ferris Wheel of a life shared, and I circle and circle and circle; up, down, and around; all the time holding these conversations in my head with someone who can't answer, unless I do it for her.
"I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense," C. S. Lewis wrote after the death of his wife. "It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had H. for their object. Now their target is gone. I keep on through habit fitting an arrow to a string, then I remember and have to lay the bow down. So many roads lead to H. I set out on one of them. But now there's an impassable frontierpost across it. So many roads once; now so many cul de sacs."
The funny thing about her, especially considering that she was best friends with me, was that she seldom cussed. "Holy Cow" or "Doggone it" were her typical phrases. I can hear her now in my head, like I do daily.
"Doggone it, Cari," she'd say, that hint of irritation in her voice the only give away that she was really pissed. "I died."
So you did, my friend, so you did. And now I'm stuck in this fucking cul de sac, and everything looks the goddamn same, and I'm running out of motherfucking gas, and normally I'd text you a string of obscenities about this shit, and holy cow, you'd be on your way with a gas can. And you'd get lost too, because we both suck at directions, but eventually you'd find me and we'd get the fuck out of that place together, one following the other.
And that's how it should be. But, it isn't.
