Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Only one grandparent left, after grandma followed suit in just a few weeks, and when you can codify the mourning period into a process, you know something’s off. There it sat in my inbox, a new e-mail from my father timestamped early Sunday morning–brief and cordial, yet with an undercurrent of distance. He would make sure to put my name on the floral arrangement, and that was that. I wasn’t even going to try to imagine what it was like for my old man, fresh from the loss of both his parents.

There will come a day, too, when I won’t need to imagine, because I’ll be in his shoes, assuming peril or disease don’t call for me first. That’s the bitter truth of the matter, anyhow, and I was thinking about this over the weekend. Perhaps that’s the point of grieving: to reflect. All the ceremony isn’t for those who have passed. The dead have no use for funerals. They don’t care about flower arrangements or who’s catering afterward.

No, it’s a reminder for the living. I remember being convinced, once upon a time, that my grandparents would always be there to spoil and reminisce, and here we are. It’s the slow march. It feels like you’re in line for a diving board, halfway up the ladder with no way to turn back. And if the mandate is to make your peace with those ahead of you, well, I’ve failed again. Same regrets as last time: should’ve made the trip across the Pacific, sent more pictures, or called, at the very least, but the point is moot now.

In instances like these, the English language is deficient. I could say I lost my grandmother, though that word would be wholly inadequate. You can lose your phone, or a parking spot, your wallet, or the office pool, but a person? It smacks of negligence. Other words are needed, and “goodbye” and “I am sorry” are all I’ve got.