We are bound to those we love, and they are bound to us

From D.W.: A couple of weeks ago I promised that I would show you my favorite photo of her and I. This is it. It's my favorite for obvious reasons. It's sweet enough to give you a cavity. The look on her face tells you all you need to know. It was taken at our little farmhouse about eight years ago on a very cold Kentucky day. This wasn't a one-time occurrence, mind you. It was pretty common for one of us to snuggle into the others arms and nap on a cold day like this.

But while it is my favorite photo, it's also the one that bring me the most sadness. And guilt. And regret. You see, I was truly asleep and didn't know this photo was taken. In fact, I didn't know it existed until I was looking at photos in her phone shortly after she died. I can't say for sure why she never showed it to me, but my suspicion is that she knew I wasn't especially fond of having my picture taken. It was something I mentioned offhandedly sometime early in our relationship and Rachel, being always attentive and accommodating, took it to heart.

There are scant few photos of the two of us together and I know that she wanted more. I also know that it's because of me and her love for me that we don't. When I look at it now, it's hard not to feel guilt and regret for ever making her feel like she had to curb her desires in favor of mine. Plus, she was right. I wish I had more photos, too.

It's impossible to live without some kind of regrets after a loved one passes, but this is the one that sticks with me the most. I have this photo in a frame prominently displayed in my house as well as in social media profiles, watch faces, etc.

I don't know what any of this has to do with today's posts. Maybe you can draw the connection. I read them today and thought about this photo. Sometimes that's all I need.

Facebook. January 24th. 2022

I’m all up in my feels on this cold January night, in the middle of the strangest time in the world, in a strange season of grief and growth in my own little life. I miss a lot of people right now and have far more questions than answers. That’s not a place I’ve been in too many times, thank God. But I’m here now.

And I’m sending all my beloveds love and prayers for enough bread and fight for tomorrow.

Facebook. May 18th. 2019

Here is what I’ve learned:

It took fifteen years for the weight of grief not to sit inside me like a millstone. It took thirteen years for the nightmares to stop. It raged back into full flower when we buried Pop on the ninth anniversary, which pretty much ruined this day. I’ve stopped trying to mark it any special way, other than remembering. One year, I shopped for toilets. One year, I saw my first Andy Warhol and I met my mother-in-law for the first time (who I love and adore and know he would have loved). One year, I accepted the job offer of my dreams. One year, I slipped two discs in my back and two in my neck and ended up in the hospital for four days. Almost every year, not on this day, but sometime during each year of these twenty-two years, someone famous or known personally to me has been diagnosed or died from the same tumor...Ted Kennedy, Holly, Catherine, Beau Biden, John McCain.

The last three years, my peony bushes have been in full flower on his anniversary. This year, I clipped their blossoms when they couldn’t hold their heads up anymore. My house smells amazing, nothing like funeral lilies or bereaved brisket, and the windows are open to the chatter of birds and bees. Not shut tight against the already too hot May sun, to keep in the air conditioning and the sounds of whispers and weeping and sad laughter drizzled over the half-hearted attempts to not sink into the couch and blend into the Laura Ashley upholstery.

I used to play the what-if game when I was younger: what if he hadn’t died? What would be happening now? That game was zero fun. It took me four years to retire from playing it a world-class professional level. It was unwinnable, ungettable, and unsatisfying. I didn’t need to remind myself he wasn’t around. That was always apparent. Not necessarily worthy of a nervous breakdown, just an immutable fact that was never going to change. It was always going to be heavy.

But I had the choice of whether to heft it to smash or to sculpt. How to carry it, where to put it down...how to put it down, how to examine it, not like a pathologist with a tumor, but like a diamond cutter looking for the right place to tap so this coprolite of the soul will shatter and reveal something priceless amidst the awful, unnecessary waste. I received this last assignment when I was 18. I begin this work in earnest on the twenty-second year, because it took me until I was 40 to figure out the instructions. I am as old as he was when he found out he was dying. He’s been dead for over half my life.

I’m not sure what happens when we die. I know the hope I have about it. But I do know that love never dies, never fails, and is relentless in its self-proclamation. I know that love is miraculous, subverts the space-time continuum, and does not obey any rules. I believe he sees me when I am loving well, when my best days happen. And while that will never be as good as him being whole and here and happy, this is indeed an abundant grace. Appreciating it has been a long time coming—my emotional palate was reluctant to allow it. It has become such sweetness, such a balm. But first, it made me cry and gag, and it may always do that, at some point, no matter how ok I am with it. And that is love, too. We are bound to those we love, and they are bound to us. And love always wins.

Thanks be to God.

I love you, Daddy. Thank you for being mine.

Love,
rachie