August
30, 2021
Greetings
from the keening,
It
wasn’t until the next morning that I realized we didn’t get a picture of the
brothers and sisters together. That was
coupled with an almost automatic thought that saw us lining up in Leslie’s
yard, squinting into the sun, smiling together for whoever would take the
picture. And then a fraction later the
sharp pain that reminded me that Leslie wouldn’t be in that photo.
Grief
is personal, comes custom fitted to each of us.
Sometimes it is molded so close we don’t recognize it, and then we are reminded
what that dull ache is. Perhaps a single
word we don’t use any more, or the instinct to call, or a reminder of something
we meant to say.
Or
the impulse, grown by decades of love and life, suddenly rendered futile.
More than a hundred people crowded into her
home, filled the yard and spilled into the street, laughing and talking, and
hugging each other. And crying. Each came with their own stories of Leslie,
their histories wound together with others there. Each came with their own version of their
love of her, and of their own grief.
On
the tables scattered around the yard and in the house there were dozens of
pictures of Leslie, smiling at us, nested with friends, surrounded by her
children, holding Bill. A montage of
memories flowed in photographs from nearly every corner.
I
spoke with most everyone at the party, many of whom have something in common
with me in that we won’t remember each other’s names. But we remember Leslie’s name, we have that
in common too. It was a delight to be in
that sea of people, all pressed into the same space to share stories about
someone we love.
It
was a beautiful celebration, with music and laughter and food and wine and memories. It was a reunion for some, a chance to be
together when we most needed to be. Of
course, in each of the friends and family there was their version of
grief. For some it was in a quiet corner
with Leslie’s dog Patience or holding onto a dear friend in the kitchen and
crying. For some the ache was
overwhelming, etched on their faces.
Her
friend Bruni waved me closer, in awe of all of the people gathered to celebrate
my sister. She said: “I see Leslie in
all of them.”
I
know what she meant. We all have her in
common, all touched by her passions and the genuine joy she took in living with
us while she was here. And for this
season, we are also bound together by her loss, by our own version of grief.
I
wasn’t watching for it, but it was there for most everyone I met. Broken hearts, leaking eyes, tender words,
soft looks. There was compassion,
comfort, there was lonely, singular pain.
Each of us wore our grief as it was made for us.
If
I’m honest I wouldn’t choose this sorrow, and I wish I could save others from
it. I know it’s part of us living here,
and loving each other, but each layer of sadness that is added makes me wonder.
Thankfully
there is healing and hope. Not that we
ever live with the complete absence of pain, of this feeling of lack, of
loss. I know better than to ask for
that, because grief is one of the ways we will keep my sister with us. None of us knows the number of days we will
get from here; all we can do is live them fully and sense her in them.
Some
days that will mean feeling grief. Ann
Lamott said: “It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that
still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
For
a little while this morning I looked through pictures of my family. Not every picture includes everyone we care
about. Not every picture has Leslie in
it. But Bruni was right; I see Leslie in
all of them.
We
are going to go on making new memories and weave them in with those we already
created. We won’t stop living, or taking
pictures, and we won’t ever stop loving Leslie.
We won’t ever stop seeing her in all of us.
Hope
this finds you feeling the joy and ache,
David
Copyright
© 2021 David Smith
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