When you hear about your friend's mother's death you think immediately what would you feel if your own mother wasn't there. It's an immediate selfish response but brought on also by the need to tap into what your friend is feeling. When he told me last Saturday of the news this thought process caused a spur in my throat to transcend whatever barrier lies between emotional and physical. My throat hurt like you get when impending sadness might break through the walls of Troy. It's like in the esophagus or something. Like where a ninja would straight-finger jab to take you out silently.
Today on the way home from work I kept imagining a dragon chomping on the smoke coming from its mouth, like eating it or chewing it. I was having a cigarette so it could have been that.
People's importance in our lives leave divots where they fill in. Who do you call when something really exciting happens to you? Who's cooking do you love? Who calls you every three days if they haven't heard from you? What happens when that divot isn't filled? Is this where loss plays god with your stable life of inimitable regularity?
I'm a social person not often found in the throws of blunder or speechlessness. The visitation was an open casket. This was my second visitation in my life, but the first open casket. It's an elephant in the room. At first I was a little scared and could not look directly at the body. After a while of looking at pictures and a slideshow I was able to cast glances that brought back nothing. The looks were too quick to resolve the nothingness and soon a full look was required. I didn't want to stare. That seemed rude. I don't know why or who would think it was rude. I was unable to successfully function in conversation like normal. No new thoughts popping up to quip out.
Early I was washing my hands after making and eating two grilled cheese sandwiches. I used sharp cheddar and mayo inside 7-grain bread. I put olive oil and a garlic pepper seasoning mix on the outside. I burned one pretty badly. Washing oil off your hands has a distinct look. It's like someone Rain-X'd your hands, or covered them in white crayon. You have to use Orange or dish soap to get them squeaky clean.
I didn't know her but had heard about her many times. Sounded like a tough cookie. She raised four boys so I'm not sure how tough you can afford not to be. After all the pictures and hearing my friend comment on her past I felt I got at least a glimpse of who she was, but with details that could never be filled in, like what her voice or laugh had been like. "That's when I would have liked to have known her" he said as the slideshow showed pictures from the 50s of her and her friends all laughing and being young and hot and devil-may-care. The next picture all the girls in the photo were showing their knees and laughing.
At the camera store where I work I helped a man buy a camera and had just finished ringing him out and bagging his new goodies. This was three years ago. There were lots of people waiting to be helped and we were busting around trying to provide the best we could to the most we could. I handed him his bag and said I knew he'd like the camera, that it was going to do really well indoors. He took the bag and stood there for a moment as I waited for him to look away before going to the next customer. He just kept looking me in the eyes for a beat too long and finally blurted "I lost my wife. It's only been a week and it's really hard." I relaxed my posture and looked him right back in the eyes and immediately said "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how you feel." "Thanks, I'll give you a call if I have questions on the camera." He left and I helped the next customer.
I finally got up the nerve to really look at her. I wanted to because I didn't know her and felt like I needed to reach some level of familiarity with her if I was going to be of any support to my friend and genuinely be there. I kept watching to catch her breathing. She was so life-like, which is fucked up because she was alive and it's the same body. But there's nothing in this one anymore. Animation has stopped. "It's weird," he said, "It looks just like her sleeping on the couch, which she did a lot. But it's not her because I know she's not there really. There's nothing inside."
Moms are, especially good ones, big divot fillers. Our fathers may hold us high in victory or crash us on the rocks in punishment or disappointment but it seems the mothers are there to fill the gaps with support on the highs and lows and check-ins and worry and extraneous cares and diet and nature and comfort and many other things better described by wordless people.
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