It's not sand.
    I finally realized, today, my head isn't encased in sand, literal or metaphorical.
    It's locked onto the image of her; That Girl; self-contained human from birth; highly ambitious and datable young woman; archer and markswoman; college student earnest to be college graduate; daughter; sister; cousin; niece; granddaughter; dedicated, charmed and charming elementary school teacher; Navy gunnery instructor and singular adventure seeker; woman in love; woman married; woman as mother; woman as Girl Scout; woman as matriarch; traveler; reader; thinker; interested in anything; taking everything in stride; durable; always optimistic; always wry; always learning; always seeking...reclining on her bed in her favorite sleep position, no longer asleep. That's the image: Her, all of her, dead, on her bed.
    The image frames every other image my eyes transmit; it fogs every thought, to the point that, after using my debit card three times, yesterday, without a hitch, on the fourth I forgot my PIN number; it hazes my windshield so I have trouble focusing on traffic; it plays through documents in boxes so that I have to continually remind myself of my sorting order and am never sure I'm following it reliably; it's causing me to accidentally leave crust on the dishes as I wash them, start a wash and forget to throw in the towels from the bathroom; I read and there she is; I watch television and there she is; I wander the neighborhood and I miss natural detail that might be refreshing because, well, there she is.
    It's not a horrible or disturbing image; in fact, she's peaceful, looking like no one other than herself. Except she's dead. The image is here, there. It causes me to switch from activity to activity before any activity is finished, not to get away from the image, I know I can't, but to get used to its presence. Everywhere. It's obvious there is no possibility for distraction from that image. It's my first awareness when I awaken. The last before I sleep. Sometimes, when I'm exhausted from working around it, I simply give in and meditate on it.
    Now that I know what I'm dealing with, well...hmmm...I can't yet extrapolate. I assume this is a standard part of grief, learning to live with that last image, working with it and around it until it settles into place among all the other images I have from her life, my life, our shared life. This is a new technique of concentration, for me, and it's hard. I expect I'll master it, but, right now, it's my master.
    I understand, now, how the concept of wearing a signal of mourning came about. People in mourning can be inadvertently dangerous. Good idea to be able to spot them. I'm considering making and wearing a black armband, as a courtesy to others.
    I can't say this grieving business isn't interesting, but it's one hell of a puzzle.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 14:20   email  this post