Lying and Grief

Lies. Have I told more to myself or to others? Have I lied to protect myself or to protect others?

Lies. About how I’m doing. Lies. About what I need. Lies. About what I want. Lies. About everything I am.

Lies. Have I told them to hide my true grief? The grief that no one knows. Inexplicable grief that ties my soul in knots a sailor could not fathom.

Grief. From losing Greg. Grief. From losing laughter. Grief. From losses others would consider inconsequential.

I sit alone and wonder. Would I? Could I? Should I? Then wonder what I am wondering about. 

If I abandon these lies and grief can I emerge from their shadows?

Wanderlust

Wanderlust. I've always had it. I think it runs in Daddy's family as many relatives have moved from place to place several times, across the country. The kid across the road and I had an elaborate plan to build a raft and float down the river to the Mississippi then to the Gulf of Mexico. (We'd been reading Huckleberry Finn.)

I'm not sure what I had over the weekend, and still have to an extent. If I had had a thousand in cash on me, I'd still be driving. I did do a lot of driving -- four to six hours both days -- but it did nothing to satisfy the urge to get in the truck and drive until I couldn't stay awake, sleep in the truck for a while, and drive again.

I have no destination in mind other than the open road. I don't think any particular destination would satisfy me. 

I am unsettled and emotionally lost. Grief and frustration are my companions. Travis Tritt's music helps but doesn't assuage this compulsion to drive.

I'm sitting at my computer writing this. I look out the window and wonder how long I could stand driving in the intermittent rain. Would I turn right or left at an intersection. Would my thoughts be any clearer after two weeks of driving. Would this ache go away.

I don't think anything will satisfy this calling including driving until I can drive no longer.

Existence Without Greg

Without Greg, existence is hard. 

Oh, I can do chores that need done. I can talk to people. I can blow money – 2020 Ford F150 last week. I can sleep. I can eat. I can carry on day-to-day functions as if nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

It’s been a year and seven days since Greg died. I know most people who see me out and about don’t think that I’m doing anything any differently than I did for the past forty-two years. I get up in the mornings, go to work (well, not exactly – the shop is there and I have it open, but I’m not really “working”). I get lunch at the usual places and times. I go home. 

There are no words to describe this existence. No matter what is said, nor how it is said, words cannot begin to convey the grief, frustration, anger, loss, emptiness nor wariness that are my companions. Loneliness is perhaps the least of my daily burdens as I was an only child and am basically a loner. 

The best way I can describe my current existence is that I feel lost. Without an anchor. Without direction. Without purpose. Greg was my rock, my safety, my heart. A constant in my life that will never be here again. 

Reminders of Greg hit me hard, like driving down the road and meeting someone driving a truck like his. My immediate pleasant thought is “There’s Greg” -- then it hits me – that’s not Greg and I’ll never see him driving our 1994 Ford F150 again. Or picking up my cell phone to call Greg to see what time he’ll be home – and my heart sinks when I get halfway through dialing his number and remember that he will never be home again.

Everything reminds me of Greg . . . trucks, deer, music and guitars, sunshine and wind . . . if it exists, in some way it reminds me of Greg. What he liked, what he disliked. What he would say about those likes and dislikes. What he’d tell me about his childhood. What he’d tell me about people he met. 

There is not a single thing that doesn’t remind me of Greg some way, somehow; most, thankfully, do not bring me to tears, but those that do bring me to tears are painful reminders that my life is forever changed and there is nothing that can replace what is gone.

I Need A Hug

I need to feel Greg's arms around me, to feel his strength and warmth. I need the assurance his hug gives me that no matter how bad things may be at the moment, as long as we're together, everything will be okay.

I need one of Greg's hugs. 

Love Doesn't Die

In the past fifteen to twenty years, many novels have family members immediately referring to a recently deceased loved one in the past tense, as in “I loved him” instead of “I love him.” This irritates me.

Even an expected death of someone who has been seriously ill takes a while to sink in -– not just a few minutes. Yes, you know they’re gone and also know that there is nothing you can do to bring them back, but your heart and spirit are screaming “NO!” and you have to make an effort to reconcile their death with the moment. It does not happen immediately. Nor does it happen in a few days or weeks or months. Nor even years . . .

However, love does not die. Love continues to live.

My father has been gone for fifty years. I still love him. I didn’t quit loving him because he died. Nor did I quit loving him because a certain amount of time had passed. I love him as much now as I did when I was a child.

I didn’t stop loving my dear Greg when he departed this life 14 August 2019. I love him as much as I always did -– my love for Greg didn’t die, it continues, and will for the rest of my life. 

Love doesn’t die. Love is eternal. 

Silent Days

The time clock is silent. There are no churnks as someone presses the lever to print the time they arrived at work. There are no clicks as its internal workings advance from one minute to the next.

The presses are silent. There are no whirs and clicks and clanks as paper advances from plain to printed. There is no pressman to bring them to life and never will be again.

The building is mostly silent. The computers are humming but the fluorescent lights aren't buzzing as much because the new ballasts somehow prevent some of the buzzing. The refrigerator died a few years ago so the sound of its compressor is no longer here. The furnace hasn't run for a day or two because of the warmer weather. The phone seldom rings.

There is no Greg. There is no fussing at the press because it isn't printing to suit him. There is no singing and guitar playing. There is no asking me what I want for lunch. There is no conversation with a buddy about gun trading. There is no Greg.

Many times through the years, when Greg was elsewhere, someone would come into the shop and say, "It's quiet in here." I'd usually reply, "Greg's not here." I was halfway joking, but it was true -- Greg was the heart and soul of the shop. Although I was here more hours than he was, the building always seemed to need his presence.

The tables by the presses, where ink knives, cotton pads, and bottles of alcohol and blanket wash reside, are unchanged. The ink in the presses is drying in the trays and dust settles on the frames -- but not paper dust. The amount of paper in the shop is dwindling.

I sort, discard, shred -- each thing I touch gives me pause. Did this job give Greg problems? Was it difficult to print? Was he pleased with it when he finished printing it? Did the customer appreciate Greg's expertise and caring?

Perhaps a silent building says it all.

Shredding My Life

My darling Greg was diagnosed with cancer in May last year. He died in August. Between May and August, thirty years of our business records were shredded. Things of import -- tax papers and their ilk -- were kept.

I am still finding things that need to be shredded. 

That cross-cut shredder does less shredding of my life than each morning when I arise knowing Greg isn't home. Today would've been his sixty-second birthday. He had joked last summer about not being around to draw Social Security. 

While we wouldn't have done much "birthday" stuff, we would've gone to a restaurant we liked and had a nice meal, possibly closing the shop for the day so we could just ramble around wherever the mood took us. We never did do much celebrating of our birthdays and anniversary, sometimes because of work schedules, other times because of lack of funds, or simply because going home and doing nothing sounded like a better plan.

Whether or not we did birthday or anniversary or holiday celebrating, we were together, nearly all day every day, for forty-two years. So many little things have brought me to tears since August, little silly things that we don't think are important but make up the day-to-day fabric of our lives. Things like wanting to tell Greg something funny one of the cats did or how many deer I saw cross the road as I was driving to work, wanting to ask Greg about someone whom he knows better than I do, deciding what -- in our case, where -- to have for supper. The list is endless.

My life is in shreds. No calendar event will ever change that. Nothing I do will ever change that. 

Oh, I can carry on with chores, put up a Christmas tree (Christmas did not hit me as hard as today has.), purchase things as I need them . . . but my life will still be in shreds. Because . . .

There's no Greg to talk to, laugh with, fight with, travel with, listen to music with, just do nothing with . . . tiny bits and pieces that can never be put together again.