Grief 2.0

Big things die when someone dies, and that’s what you notice first. That’s what hits you. They aren’t THERE anymore: lying next to you in bed, standing beside you at the sink brushing teeth, sitting across the table eating dinner, in the car, driver or passenger. No steps in the hallway. No rattling of dishes being put away. No whistling. Yes, he was a whistler. And you get used to this faster than you think you will. The silence. The knowledge that whenever you walk into the house, you will be the only one there. One car in the two-car garage. A closet with only your clothes.And then, a month or so later, after that barrage of mail to “the estate of” from doctors and lawyers and accountants and vultures who read the probate postings, after the bills that are still in his name, and the random notes and letters from strangers, from fans of his books, from people who do not yet know the addressee is, well, no longer at this address, after all that has ceased, you notice that all the mail in the mailbox is now addressed to you. And you get used to this faster than you think you will.And then, day to day, week after week, you notice the things he used to do that you now have to do: hauling the garbage cans and recycling up the driveway and back, checking the level on the propane tank, filling the bird feeder.  And the bigger things: putting up the Christmas lights, pruning the orchard, income taxes. And you do all of it. Sad because this is yet another reminder that a practical-life partner is gone. Grumpy because you have all your own chores to do. Intimidated because, well, taxes. But, with each chore accomplished, you actually feel a sense of accomplishment, of stubborn pride, proof that you can do all this. And you get used to doing everything that needs to be done. And you get used to it faster than you think you will.And then driving up the freeway to visit a friend, you pass by the sign to Brownsville and remember that long-long ago breakfast at the greasy spoon and the joke you made about it every time you passed the freeway sign. No one else knows that joke. No one else knows about “café con queso” and why that is funny and infuriating at the same time. No one else will roll their eyes and say “blah, blah, Ginger, blah, blah” when they have heard enough—and know exactly where that comes from. Those countless sentences that begin, “remember when…” will no longer be uttered. Because now you are the sole repository of that memory. And that empty space is so much bigger than all the rest. And you will never get used to it.