I am my world. My spinning world of love and grief and memories. The world of my words. The world of my worlds.
At first, it’s a party. People come over. They bring food and flowers and booze. They clean. They cook. “Hey there, how’s everything going with you?” They ask because they truthfully want to know. They carry books and ask you to go on walks. They plan the memorial. They stay by your side on that day of celebration. Like a birthday party, a memorial celebrates a life.
The memorial is the last phase of people gifting you their time. They must get back to their lives. They must get back to the people in their lives. Friends visit only on weekends. The phone rings less. The walks get shorter and scarcer. The carefully wrapped casseroles stop appearing in the kitchen. The flowers start to wilt, dripping their leaves on the tabletop.
How are you doing? The soft voices that ask the caring questions start to evolve in tone, speed, intonation. Topics. Conversations evolve into the talk of life. The lives of the living.
But I can’t, I do not return to my life because my life isn’t there anymore. And never will be again. My lives. My worlds.
My friends go out for dinners. They take day trips to lakes. My friends eat at home or the home of friends. They return to their worlds. Silence now permeates what used to be our home. My house is now empty of noise because it is now missing my favorite sound. Now nothing seems right.
Now. For whom do I cook? Who do I cook with? How do I comfort others? How do I adjust to a new life without that person’s existence? In the beginning—disbelief, shock. A phone that becomes a brick being held in my hand. A brick no longer brings me silly messages from the now-dead person. I start feeling more feelings. These are feelings that slowly start to whisper away. They fade as I acclimate to what’s missing from my life. Missing from my life.
Then—then things start seeming kinda normal. I notice that the world is continuing. I cry less. I lol. I listen to a podcast. I eat breakfast. Then—when I’m kinda functioning without that constant feeling of emptiness, loss, grief—that is when the death hits me. I’ve returned to the normal headspace.
Life goes on. So do I.
I no longer have shock or disbelief to numb me. I no longer have the fresh, bloody cuts to bandage. All I have are what’s under the now scarred skin: severed arteries and punctured organs and smokey images. Those things haven’t started healing yet—and I know that the deepest cuts never will.
I knit. A scarf for Darlene. A warm beanie for Marc.
I stare at the fuzzy ball of yarn, next to me, on the sofa in my Studio. The soft, warm wool I’m gripping is the only reality I can touch. I’m navigating the unfamiliar terrain of amnesia. I am knitting together a semblance of connection, one stitch at a time.