More Than

Sometimes I am consumed with fury.  Other times my heart just breaks.  Again.

There were two of these incidents this week.  I'll tell you about them.  But then, in an effort, to be more...hopeful...I'll share something that's been on my mind that counteracts the darkness and despair.

Picture it.  I am driving down West Michigan- curse of my soul-

(a sidebar here to say it is the most evil of paradoxes that I want to move and flee this neighborhood never again to drive down that particular stretch of road, but know in my heart I will never do it because moving would require me to pack up Cory's room.  I simply cannot.  If nothing else, I know my limits.  Her bedroom is tangible proof that I shared the wonder of her life.  It is space that she walked and danced upon, stomped on and slept in.)

Okay, I am driving down West Michigan, lighthearted and joking with Jake, having just visited my parents before they leave for vacation when what to my resentful eyes should appear but a lone figure crossing West Michigan for the...thousandth time...

This time, it was a man- get ready for it- with earbuds in, not looking in either direction, a fucking man bun on his head, and actually, I kid you not, casually SIPPING A GODDAMN FOUNTAIN POP as he walked across the road in the exact path my girl had fatally set out on six years ago.  The cars?  They slowed.  They braked.  They parted like the Red Sea, their brake lights popping red all across the roadway.   Of COURSE they did.

Immediate road rage.  Immediate flashbacks.  "Are you kidding me?!"
Jake sat beside me shaking his head, patting my shoulder,  and looking miserably at his feet.

There I was mean-mugging a strange man rocking a stupid man bun.  We actually locked eyes, him probably wondering why the hell a mid-forty year old woman was eyeballing him so hard.  I drove the rest of the way home seeing red.  Brake lights.  Flashing lights.  Blood.

The next night after dinner with my sister, Jake and I went to the cemetery to see our girl.  We looked around for rabbits, saw none, caught her up on our week, and then I watched memorized as he said his goodbye.  He leaned forward, taller than me, heavier than me, his shadow falling gracefully and full of life yet to live over her stone, and gently kissed the center of the cross.  That single action said every word about his grief that he isn't yet willing or able to verbalize.  His love for her was so obvious in his reverence, the linger of his lips to her stone, the wistful sound of his voice, "We love you, Cory."  Heartbreak.  Utter and complete.  His.  Mine.  Hers.  All three.

So what to counteract such darkness?

Just thought I'd share Tim's perspective for once.  He's spent the last four weeks tiptoeing around my death-versary-wakened trauma symptoms, after all.  Sometimes, I soak up his help when I need it so desperately that I forget he is grieving, too.  What does that look like, you ask?

I've learned to listen carefully for the rare jewels the males in my family offer up about our girl.  More importantly, I've learned to watch their actions.  I spent the week of the fifth making art, writing, looking at pictures, and listening to songs that I seldom open myself up to.  I remember thinking maybe I would read through her journals, but being afraid it would hurt too much and suddenly realizing that's probably how Jacob feels all the time and why he seldom speaks of her.

So Tim, what did he do?  He ran errands.  He made sure there were groceries.  He picked up dinner more nights than I'd like to admit.  There was no way in hell I was standing in front of my cutting board at the counter that week, that was for sure, head half cocked for a knock at the door.  And in the midst of all these household duties, while I slept or medicated or drank coffee with my headphones on for hours at a time staring into a time when my daughter was within arms' reach, he snuck out to the cemetery.  He never told me he was going until afterwards.  He made three trips in total.  He spent hours knelt down beside her monument, scrub brush in hand, meticulously scrubbing it, taking the time to get the bristles deep inside every letter etched into the stone.  He pulled the weeds.  He made it look cared for.  When he was finished, he suggested we drive out to see her, the three of us, and waited to see if I noticed, which I did, the letters stood out against the stone beautifully.  He told me how long it took him and the lump came without warning to my throat.  "I wanted to make it right for her."

Then tonight, he and Jake were up in her room replacing a pane of glass that had cracked in her window.  When he finished he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and said, "I looked up there and it was just like it used to be.  I could almost see her in the window like she'd be in the summer when I got home after work.  'Hey, Dad!  Did you just get off work?  How's it going?'  And I'd say, 'Hey, Cory!  What are you still doing up?'  He smiled and laid a finger to his lips, and she'd say, 'Shhh!  Don't tell Mom!'"

He chuckled sadly.  I really didn't know a chuckle could be sad until we lost Cory.  He turned away but not before I saw  his eyes and in them was all his grief, all his love, and all the stories he hasn't yet shared.

I know some people say the secret to success in life is simply showing up.  I can tell you this much.  Being a father, being a dad...it's more than showing up.  It's what you do when you're there.