I was smiling at Zach, so thankful that he was reading and we were laughing and my dad was no longer crying. Zach had this way of making me forget things like the past or the future or the laundry I left in the washer. I always got caught up in listening to his stories, using words like level-headed and cool. I know that I’ve met new people, made new friends, but I am starting to think Zach was heaven-sent. He understood us, shared in our joys and pains. He was a part of our story.
“As Anthony and Chas,” Zach resumed, “ started to date, I found myself witnessing the genesis of an amazing relationship. Chas and I had become friends after working on a terrible DVD project a few months back. Wouldn’t it just figure that my two closest friends at work would fall in love. Anticipating the future, I thought about getting the words ‘third wheel’ tattooed on my arm.
“I wish you all could know how sweet and beautiful their courtship was. I found myself taking notes on the way they treated each other. If I were to use just half of the things Anthony did, I could write a best-selling how-to book on making a girl fall head over heels. I watched them operate and I thought, that is what love is. That’s what I want for myself one day.”
Each eulogy was a mirror of the reader. Your parents and I agreed on who would deliver them. We asked each person individually. Each accepted it as a great honor. Every eulogy wanted to make you proud: Jay, Zach, a childhood friend, your brother, and I. We listened to the stories and imagined what your life was all about. We learned. We remembered. We wanted someone to tell us that your life meant something, that all of us meant something. Each eulogy gave us the chance to focus on the you we all loved, the whole you: your strengths, your joys, challenges and achievements.
“I have tried more than once to prepare myself for this day,” Zach continued. “I have been overcome with sadness the last few months, and I didn’t think I would know how to handle this. But I find myself thinking now that I’ll always have Anthony with me, because I am always thinking, ‘What would he do here, or what would he say?’ I can hear him telling me to pump the brakes when I’m doing something dumb. I can hear him telling me to rally when I’m moping around. When something goes wrong, I can hear his one-word sympathy, suck, that somehow means so much. And as I look around the room, every one of your faces reminds me of him. I’ve been so scared of what life would be like without him, but I realize now that he’s always with me, and it makes me feel like I can one day be the man, friend, and husband that he was.”
It was a blur of words, a daze of sentiments. I was mixed up with emotions, feeling human and in need of God. I looked inside myself trying to find a way to trust God again. Collecting my sadness, I closed my eyes. I was mad at God for leaving me behind. Yet I prayed anyway and prayed honestly. Poppy, give me strength. I took a deep breath. Amen. Then shuffled my way to the front of the church.
“Most of you know Anthony was an amazing writer. He was a great kisser too, but that’s not what I’m here to tell you about.” The church giggled. “I’m going to read an e-mail he wrote me at a time in my life when I needed answers. He was such an amazing writer. His words could save you. His words could wrap themselves around you and protect you. You could fall in love with his words. I did. Okay, maybe it helped he was a good kisser…” The church giggled again. “I wanted to share with you an e-mail he wrote me exactly a year ago from the day he passed. I went to his e-mails looking for signs and reassurance, to know that I would be all right. To look for an answer in all of this. I’m sorry if I choke on his words…” I turn to Laura, “And I am sorry I am about to swear in church.” I can hear Jay laugh, or cry.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, July 27, 10:22 a.m.
Subject: i couldn’t attach the song i wanted to send with this…
and that sucks because it was perfect
i am scared
of being scared…
and so,
i am not.
even if i am.
for too much of my life,
at the worst times, some random times
and inevitably embarrassing times,
my hands have shaken…
despite me.
my efforts to focus.
calm.
steady…
FUCK!
and it is a sad betrayal
when your body gives up your mind,
shows that which you would conceal,
that which you cannot…
but something good
has come out of it…
and that is,
i know i still must act.
must push through it,
must do whatever it is.
fear is familiar.
and so,
when it comes
i know what to do.
“my fear is my only courage
so i have to push on through…”
— bob marley
i know…
i can’t believe i just quoted bob marley either,
but it came to mind,
and even if i sound like
a college freshman…
it helps the point.
despite your efforts
to illustrate the contrary,
i don’t think you are fearful.
i think you are bold.
and i think you are beautiful.
i think you are bold and beautiful.
(oh christ, i’m losing it…)
but there is something inside of you,
something i have seen:
a strength. steadiness. courage.
as opaque as you are.
it is easy to see.
perhaps you are scared now,
frozen by the fear you feel
because you don’t know
how to handle it…
fear is not familiar for you.
we are defined by
who we are in crisis…
you are overwhelmed.
so quit your fucking whining
and do something about it.
something amazing.
because that is who you are.
that is what i see.
chapter fifty-three
track 3
Saturday, September 15
I wonder if I am supposed to cry this much, because it seems like that’s all I do. I cry when I’m in the shower, wake up, before bed, in the car, go for a walk, when I read a book, get dressed, breathe. I cry.
I try to put on this believable game face with friends and family. I never cry in front of them. Instead I give animated smiles and positive status reports to my grieving process. Everyone usually seems pleased with my response, and compliments me on my strength. I’ve come up with generic answers to favored questions like, “How are things?” “How’s work?” “You doing okaaay?” I give them stock replies because my honest answers would cause most people to worry. If okay means I need sleeping pills to rest at night, or I’ve lost ten pounds in two months, or I eat bags of popcorn for dinner because I don’t want to cook for only one — then yes, I’m doing fine.
Sunday, November 25
I have this reoccurring dream. I carry around your head. No body, no shoulders even. Disgusting, I know. But I tell people “it is all I have left and I am afraid to let it go.” I carry it around. Look at your sweet face. Change the bandage on your cheek. Kiss your forehead and nuzzle your face, like we use to do, like Eskimos. Your lips form a half moon and smile back, as I place your sleeping head back into my bag. Everywhere I go. You are with me.
I’m careless in the few memories I have left of you. I’m composing settings all my own while creating scenarios of untruths. “Remembe
r that time we traveled to Bali for our wedding anniversary?” Developing a mind’s snapshot to frame rather than repetitiously filing memories true. I’ve lost our memories to my desire of wanting you here. I’m sorry. But you left me with so few. I don’t have thirty years like your mother, or numerous good times like friends. I barely have a year. I’m afraid a single memory might slip through the cracks of my fingers, not unlike holding water. No matter how tight I squeeze my fingers, I’m afraid I might lose you. I have so little to grasp.
As a result I’ve continued my elliptical march of filing memories to a place I won’t forget, squeezing my hands so tight not to lose you. I place your sleeping head in my bag. Everywhere I go. You are with me.
Thursday, February 14
resembling that of a phantom limb,
an element of me no longer connected.
today grief feels like an amputation.
like an absent piece of self;
an absent piece of something whole,
something familiar.
half of a whole.
I am learning to take my first steps with artificial legs,
learning to embrace with my torso, and not both arms.
is it possible to become an amputee of an emotion?
such as love?
a hole so vast in your chest, breathing becomes difficult.
how do you pray for a missing piece
that is a part of your own heart?
still, there is no denying that in some sense I do, feel better.
my phantom love has now become my prosthetic sorrow.
careers are on the horizon.
a healthy Gladys skipping alongside.
my friends near.
my family close.
as I learn to take first steps, as half of a whole.
and finding some joy in between.
…
Anthony, I’ve been writing this story, wonderfully wondering what I should include and disclose. It’s hard to not want to skip ahead, past the daily doses of disease and grieving journal entries and discontent and get to the good days. There are good days but there sure were a ton of bad ones. The months I’d hoped to spend with you were hijacked by malignancies — they told us maybe a year, months, certainly not days. When you asked me if I’d be okay without you, I lied. I mean I did, and I didn’t. That first year without you, I felt lost, fending for myself in a daunting landscape of being alone. This unquenchable emptiness eating away at my soul, my stomach, my insides. Trying to understand what the word grief meant. I asked myself all too often, “Now what?” I was faced with the scalding reality of being on this side of life without you. I was afraid that if I let go of my sorrow and put out the fire in my heart, I would lose you.
It was the little things that wrecked me, like loading the dishwasher without you, or strolling down every aisle in the supermarket, placing my toothbrush in the slot next to yours. I was learning to take first steps like a child. Learning to walk again. Learning what to do with your tools in the garage and the Cruiser and socks. I still have them, your socks. I didn’t know what to do with them. There needs to be a pamphlet for that. On what to do with socks and toothbrushes after someone dies. I started wearing them and your flannels too, sometimes even your deodorant. You felt closer when I did. Sometimes I still wear them.
…
I used to be sad when I thought about this time, that first year alone. What I didn’t realize was that it would be filled with people and prayers and lasagna and homemade soups and daisies and sunflowers and paperwork. After the funeral the house filled with people, doing activities. I was never lonely. I had support buzzing around me, helping me, holding me up whenever I wobbled. Gladys had a dozen aunts and uncles to play ball with, to love. Jay even fed her table scraps when I wasn’t looking.
An outside friend labeled our home “Camp Mourn.” I didn’t mind. I was proud of the camaraderie, to be surrounded by such warmth. Julie cooked a turkey that first Christmas. My first birthday York lit the candles on my cake. On Valentine’s Day, Jane and I went traveling. On our wedding anniversary, Jay and I ate the frozen chocolate cake from our wedding day and shared stories of you. The cake was disgusting. I’m still not sure why it’s tradition to keep frozen cake until the first anniversary. The year of your death we all went for a bike ride to the beach and toasted you with champagne exactly like we did when we spread your ashes. (Remind me to tell you that story.) In August I went to Maine and visited your family.
All the holidays, time markers, days without you, Camp Mourn was there. Always in love, some days in despair, but it was all the same. I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today without them. Without that first year and their comfort. Those twelve friends who came to our reception were my wedding gift, my honeymoon, my happily-ever-after. Whenever I miss you, I call them. You live in their stories, in their smiles, in the ways they love, and ways they laugh. Without you I can’t imagine anymore.
…
It’s been five years since you left. It took me five years to write these pages. Every day is a new piece of my learning. A lot has happened in five years. This entire journey has drawn me into a labyrinth of feelings. I have been able to discover so many aspects of myself, once buried and lost. I no longer believe in words like forever. All that I have is here and now, and that is enough. You taught me that. You taught me that love is the language, the laugh lines, the spaces between the words written and jokes told and stories shared and beers drunk. Love is what living is for. You taught me that sometimes love is something you can’t let go of. And sometimes love is something you’d do anything to forget. And sometimes, we learn something about love that changes everything we know about ourselves.
There is so much more I need to tell you. So many more stories — OHMYGOD, York and Julie are MARRIED! Ten years together and they had a secret ceremony, only the two of them. We’re still awaiting a rowdy reception. Maybe they’ll have one in Portland. They live there now.
Oooh, and you’ll never guess who I’m living with these days: Jay. I know, crazy right? He moved into the house shortly after you left to help me stay grounded. “I would love to move in with you and Anthony if you’ll let me.” Jay is a saint. In all his distance from you and your disease, he helped me a great deal that first year. Listening, not questioning or pushing me along in my grieving. We talked openly about you, both missing you terribly. You’d be proud of him. I know — you’re proud of him already. He fixed up the Cruiser. She looks amazing with new fabric and tires and transmission and he even replaced the cracked dashboard.
Gladys still sits in the passenger seat panting with her face out the window, lips flapping in the wind. She is a funny dog. She’s getting old now, twelve this year. Not sure how much time she has left, but I think she’s ready. She’ll be so excited to see you.
Um, let’s see — Zach continues his travels. I think he’s somewhere in Europe now, Bulgaria maybe, trying to find his sense of purpose. I think he’s going to end his two-year journey in India. I’ll be curious to see if he still has his heart intact or if he’s given it away completely.
As for Jane, you were right, she is an amazing friend, and the perfect travel companion. Spain was our first destination. I even brought along your journal from your trip with Jay. I read about your rowdy Spain travels and the girl and the drinks and the cities. I filled the back pages of the journal with my own adventures.
You’ve missed such good music the last couple of years, like Bon Iver and Greg Laswell and Passion Pit and Angus and Julia Stone and the Avett Brothers. I swear, some of the songs were meant for you and me. I like to think you’re writing songs in heaven and sending them to me. I am certain you wrote track three on York’s latest mix. I don’t even know who sings it or the band. All I know is that it is perfect. Thank you.
…
I am doing well. I’m now in a place where there is no more confusion
over why you left or why God took you from me. People have told me time heals all wounds. I disagree. Time gives you space and distance and understanding. There is still a scar, an eternal ache, but there is also a bandage of acceptance. I’m in a place where there is only peace and joy and perfect love and gratitude. And I thank God for those things again. I was mad at Him that first year, maybe even the second and third. He was distant and remote and I felt completely abandoned. But I trust in Him again. I told God the truth.
I told him I missed you and every time I thought the words, “miss you,” I cried. I’m not sure if that feeling will ever go away. I told Him that. The more I talked to Him, the more I cried, feeling every emotion I had collected along the way. I cried through every stage of grief and then back around again. Round and round. I’m not numb anymore. I am living, breathing, existing at my most raw. I am human and God is always right there. Right where I need Him to be. In my heart. In my love. In my you.
I have held on to a number of voicemail messages in my phone. I listen to them when I need a smile or reminder or something as simple as a voice. Today I erased a bunch of them, leaving me with two left. One is from you. I miss you, call me.
The other one is from someone you haven’t met. I think you’d like him, though. He reminds me of you in the way he can get me to laugh loud and sudden and squirt beer out of my nose. He feels like Minnesota in the winter of freshly chopped wood and hot cocoa. I feel lighter when he is around. And he makes excellent coffee. That has to count for something. No?
even if i am. Page 28