In Memoriam...

I hate anniversaries – of any variety.  It seems a funny thing to say, considering they are typically joyous occasions, however through the years I have found it harder and harder to acknowledge these events without sadness enveloping me.  The thing is, every year older is another year further from those memories I hold dear. 

This isn’t to sound melodramatic – there are so many new memories that are also very dear to my heart, but each year at this time, I’m reminded of another anniversary that reminds me of the way things have changed. 

On August 8^th, 1990, my grandfather died in an accident.  He was 58 years old.  My entire life changed, in ways that I’m still trying to comprehend, and yet, in many ways, I’m sure I never will. 

Every year since Papa’s death has been somewhat of a milestone for me, because, even at 8 years old, I never quite understood how there could be a minute more of my life than my time with him.  There was no conscious acceptance of a life of my own because in I felt as though life was forever the one that he had built for us. 

It sounds crazy and perhaps a bit deluded, but as a child, you have such a strange grasp on reality that the little things that change in your daily life (such as a new car, a new toy or a new home) seem like a huge deal.  Something as massive as death is far too complex to really grasp in any context, aside from the invariable clarity that life will never be the same. 

That notion, as simple as it might seem from an adult perspective, was unfathomable to the 8 year old me who watched the world screech to a halt, all in the course of one day. 

The thing about loss is that it’s so confusing – there’s the strange reality of it that you never quite come to terms with.

When you have someone or something in your life, it becomes so much a part of you that it can so easily be taken for granted; it’s not that you value it less, but you never quite think about those times when it may no longer be there.  Those moments that you have, every day, seem so average and consistent that the reality of the fragility of life can be lost on you. 

But when someone leaves – they die, move away, or move on – those moments suddenly become memories that you now have to re-categorize and reassess.  Moments that were simple points of fact now become elusive and hard to grasp. 

From my own experience, I can say that the loss you feel from that person’s departure seems insurmountable.  It feels as if there’s no way to fill that void without losing them, or losing yourself in the process.  What you used to accept as your world suddenly becomes your world without them. 

And you can’t prepare for the inevitable, no matter how hard you try.  The thing is, there is no imagining a world without someone until they are gone; there is no way to prepare for that absence because you’ll never know what thing you’ll miss most: the way the smell or sound, the bristle of their voice, or the company over coffee first thing in the morning. 

When someone is there, it is just an inevitable fact; when they’re gone, there is no going back. 

Loss is something I’ve struggled with, not because it has been consistent but because it has been overwhelming for me.  Never learning what was ok, I always felt as if there would be no more ‘normal’ left; that with the passing of a loved one, you too began to pass. 

Twenty years ago, I could not imagine a moment even five minutes in the future because those minutes, however near, were minutes without that constant that I had always had.  Every minute, every hour and every day were challenges that I felt completely unprepared to face because if for no other reason than his absence, I was no longer a whole. 

As those minutes moved forward, whether I liked it or not, I began to create new ‘normals’ and I began to appreciate the new days as ones that hurt a little less, and felt a littler fresher.  There was no longer the overwhelming sadness that came in those first few days after he’d gone, and suddenly it became a dull ache that I thought about often, but that I knew was inconsolable. 

Twenty years later, I look back on the years between then and now, and wonder what it would have all been like had the hydraulic lift not failed, had he not been working on the truck that day, or had any other series of events prevented the tragedy from occurring. 

I’ll never know what could have been, and I’ll never have the peace of mind of knowing that I appreciated those moments together before that day enough when they were happening.  My only consolation in it all has been that in the twenty years that have passed, not only have I lost people, but I’ve gained wonderful loved ones in the process; people who I could not have fathomed in my life at that time have now become staples of a reality created in the wake of that accident. 

I might always hate anniversaries and other ‘special’ occasions that I should love; I still see a lot of these moments as reminders of sadness and awkwardness borne of fearfulness.  But, on the other hand, I do try to remember that even as a child, I looked forward as far as I could – a few minutes at a time – and braved what felt like a whole new world ever-changing before my eyes.  And there has been so much good and kindness since. 

Twenty years is a long time – and at the same time it can feel like a minute; life is the culmination of the duality of everything we are able and unable to comprehend, and the way we forge onward.  Try as we might to move on, it is only moving forward. 

Our consolation is, for however long it lasts, we are loved and love others – and we are forever growing into the people we should be. 

A smart man taught me that – and even though all these years have passed, I won’t ever forget the impact he had on my life.  Our time together may have been brief, but it was significant none-the-less. 

Much love and adoration, Papa.  I hope you’re enjoying the view.  X