Have you ever been in a home the day after the funeral of the one that caused the structure of wood, brick and drywall to be called a home in the first place?
The day after the body, the empty shell, has been buried beneath six feet of cool, damp earth.
The day after the sympathizers, empathizers, comforters, mourners and gawkers have dried their eyes, ate their food and gone home.
The day after the house has been filled with beautiful, overbearingly fragrant arrangements that cause you to tear up from renewed grief at the sight of them, although the nose blowing has more to do with the abundance of pollen.
The day after the light of a family's eyes, the joy of their hearts and the strength they depend on has been officially and finally "laid to rest."
I don't mean to sound cynical or bitter - I promise I am not. But I'm realizing... as I experience for the first time this "day after" that I have never really before understood what this separation called "death" does to people the day after.
It is like someone ripped off your right arm. Yes, you get medical attention and yes it will heal. But to wake up the next morning and realize that life has "returned to normal" for everyone else and for you... it is only a vague semblance of "normal." Normal now has to be redefined because everything you knew and loved and took joy or comfort in was tied to, influenced by the heart, life, love and touch of one that is now separated from you. Life can go on without an arm - people survive without certain appendages. And life "will go on" without the vibrant heart that once lit it up. Without the laughter that lifted sorrow. Without the touch that soothed hurt. Without the smile that smirked at depression. Without the quiet wisdom that led, taught, admonished and encouraged.
Life will go on... but on this "day after" I have to wonder how.
Aunt Debbie, your light penetrated every sphere you entered; your life, every heart it came in contact with. I miss you.
No comments:
Post a Comment