Pennies from Heaven

Pretty sure 6 years officially puts me into the void. Most people won't remember that Greg died on December 19th anymore, and some people might not even remember that it was Christmastime. But this is not a sad-sack self-pity whining-into-my-wine post. 6 years later and that shit is getting tiresome.

Thursday night I had a bad dream about Greg. I was in a Starbucks and there were some people there that I knew. I was in a very long line and talking to someone I hadn't seen in a few years, and I looked over that guy's shoulder and there was Greg, across the Starbucks and standing near a table. He looked kind of sick but was upright and not too thin, standing there with one of those surgical masks across his face but in regular clothes and scanning the room. A million feelings rushed through me at once and I absurdly said to this acquaintance, "Do you want to meet my dad? He's dead, actually, but he's standing right over there..." He just stared at me, so I said, "No worries, I'm just going to excuse myself though because I haven't talked to him in a few years and there's some catching up to do." I started to walk away and ____ grabbed my arm, started asking me if I wanted to sit down and what was I having to drink because we'd both been in line for a long time and were finally near the register. I tried to pull away and that's where it all got ugly. I don't remember the rest of the dream vividly, except that at one point I was distraught, with people crowding around me and trying to force me to sit down, and I tried desperately over and over to explain that I needed to get to my dad, he was just over there and I hadn't seen him in SIX years and especially he was DEAD, so I really needed to just go talk to him for a minute. Of course no one else could see him. They thought they were being good Samaritans and protecting me in my grief. Really, they were keeping me from an unknown and unimagined opportunity.

The boychiks have been naughty felines of late, and my sleep hasn't been good. I don't know what to make of that dream, except that I'm always grateful to see Greg, even in a dream, even in a lousy Starbucks.

The dream world is a strange one, and I've been a restless inhabitant for many years. One of my very close friends lost her dad a few weeks ago.- without telling all her business, there were parallels and it was hard. I wanted to console her but I knew better than probably anybody how fucking shitty she was feeling. We sat in her backyard the day after, and the sun was shining, and she asked me about a conversation with her dad, a conversation that as it happened I had also had with Greg. Our dads were both artists (writer, musician) with artists' souls and demeanor. The conversation was about being part of a small special tribe, artists with intense feelings and thin shells. We feel it all and we feel it so very much, and our dads both knew how it was a gift and a hardship. But they both encouraged us to never stop feeling EVERYTHING, because our depths of despair will be matched by dizzying love that many people will never feel in all that burning, gasping glory. We loved our dads, and they loved us, and they did the best they could and were gone too soon.

6 years farther along the path and I couldn't really tell my friend a bunch of bullshit about feeling better because we know each other too well and we're too much alike. I could say, The raw moments will get fewer and farther between, but they'll still come over you like black dogs barking and you'll feel helpless and hurting until they fade again. I could say, Try not to play the game with yourself where if you just act really REALLY good, he'll come back from this extended vacation called death, cause I played that game too long and he ain't coming back.......unless the seventh year holds a BIG surprise for me (kidding!). I can't really say it gets better, but it does get farther away. Probably the only thing I could tell my friend that would be both helpful and true is this- the bad parts fade first. The hospital scene and struggle and guilt will dissipate. The love and gratitude will remain. 

I wrote in another post about leprechaun money in Greg's office. When my cousin got married in September, the aisle was strewn with leprechaun pennies from LA. My precious creative aunt made my cousin and I these bracelets; pennies from heaven...

Fare Thee Well, Faithful Escort

I've been in an awful mood all weekend, but it took me til this morning to finally make the connection. It wasn't stress, illness, or romance, but a big hunk of metal that brought me down. After a long exhausting week already, Greg's car took a dump on me Thursday night. I got it to the mechanic's and Saturday morning, sat down in his office for the bad news. Luckily Javier has a good bedside manner, because it felt exactly like being in the doctor's office. He gave me the diagnosis and the price(it's A LOT), and I asked, "What will happen if I do nothing?" He said, "Well you definitely can't drive it on the freeway, but if you insist on driving it in town as is, it will experience a slow decline over time until it dies." I probably looked like I was about to start crying, because he continued with, "You don't have to decide right now. It's your dad's car, yes? Maybe time to start thinking about changing to a new car.." He gently smiled and gave me back the keys. 

I drove away (hobbled away) and immediately began rationalizing and denying. I don't need to drive on the freeway! I'm not too old to learn how to ride a bicycle! I'll move to the Avenue! I have a lot of friends with cars! This is totally fine! When I called Sharon, who is often more attuned to my volatile Irish moods than I am, she listened to the explosion first and then very carefully suggested leasing a car, saying "There's a lot of affordable options right now, and that way you can have a couple of.............years.............to get ready to make a decision about Greg's car." I put her off by dramatically exclaiming, "I can't even think about this right now! I'm in a master's program for God's sake!" 

But of course that's what I spent most of the weekend thinking about (and drinking wine from a jelly jar since I obviously wasn't going to be driving anyway). Every time I went downstairs to change the laundry or take the recycling, I'd give the car a baleful look. I was one glass away from literally shaking my fist. Here are all the things I understand- I know, it's just  a car. I know, someone's possessions are not the same as someone. I know, Greg cares more that I'm safe than sentimental. 

And yet.....

This is the car that's been there for me on long drives at night through the hills with the windows down. I've cried and snotted all over the steering wheel more times than I care to admit. Greg's envelope with his headshots and his ratty blue towel are still in the trunk. It was the last car we were in together before he died. I feel better when I see it in the parking lot at school. 

Someone I love asked if I could try to reframe this experience. He said, "Maybe instead of feeling let down and disappointed, you could imagine the car is telling that it's served you well, that it's tired and getting old. What if you focused on how far this car has taken you already? Consider that maybe it was there for you as long as you needed it, and feel gratitude." 

I'm not buying a new car right now, I just ain't. I'm probably not coughing up [amount redacted] either. As usual, Sharon has the wisest solution and I was too bullheaded to admit it up front. Greg's car and I have a lot of history, but this weekend was probably the beginning of the most gentle letting go of which I'm capable. Time to say goodbye.....if slowly. 

By the way, can I get a ride to school tomorrow?

A tiny flame burning...

I wonder how many people remember today is Greg's birthday. I know I can't count them on one hand, but I suspect I probably could with both hands. Our wonderful friends sent a bouquet of sports cookie flowers( sports! cookies! So Greg!) which was an incredible gesture of warmth, and I've received a few messages, but that's about it. I don't remember most birthdays after the first year someone's gone either (including people I loved very much), so I'm not resentful, but it's like there must be a birthday party happening somewhere- only was I not invited? I'm rather lonely.

Many of the people I'm closest to these days didn't even know my dad. They know about him, or they've seen photos, but they didn't know him, so it's natural that he's less and less a part of my daily life, even as I still think and dream of him often. The St. Patty's day party is precious to me because I know I'll see many of his friends, and I know his name will be said and it won't be because I brought him up first. C and I still talk about him, mostly telling stories that would sound a little dumb to someone who wasn't there, but make for great shared memories. Every year, Greg's death comes out with a new group of students during my "Star of the Week," when they get to ask me questions about my family and someone always always asks, "Where does your dad live?" Of course, he's still in my dreams.

This morning I started to say to an acquaintance, "Today would have been my dad's birthday," but I amended it to say, "Today's my dad's birthday" because technically it IS the anniversary of his birth in the present tense; but then of course I was asked, "Oh! Are you seeing him later?" and I said, "Not likely, he's dead" because it was 7am and I was tired and didn't have it in me to gloss.

So I guess at least THAT poor person knows today is Greg's birthday.

The good side is I think Greg is turning more and more into a glow in my periphery instead of a storm cloud on my horizon, which I appreciate because it's pretty disrespectful to take this person who was present and loving and creative and vivid for over 25 years of my life and reduce him to an excuse for emotional stagnancy under a guise of love. There are thin ribbon scars instead of gaping wet wounds; as it should be. Today's his birthday and I remember, and I'm sad but I'm basically fine. I honor Greg by being a stand up guy as often as I'm able, and by sending him love, and by setting a tiny flame burning on a birthday cookie from his best friend.

Love you, daddio...

Rhapsody In Blue

Standing at the kitchen counter, listening to Gershwin and cutting up a melon. Remembering how Greg used to use the top of a pizza box as a cutting board when he would cut up the melons he'd buy for a treat - this after lugging them home from the market and up five flights of stairs. Once he forgot the umbrella by the door and I remember a pissed-off Greg hacking into the watermelon and spitting epithets. Usually, it was a mellow Greg talking about the play we were going to see, asking if I wanted to go to Sardi's after the play, or reminding me that he was going to meet me at the bookstore when I got off work (so we could go see a play). 

All those watermelons and cantaloupes were much healthier than walking to Haagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry's every night he was there (which we also did), but in NYC, watermelons were probably just as or more expensive than gourmet ice cream. I think about and dream about Greg so much more than I ever take the time to write about anymore, I just figured I'd postpone grading for all of 5 minutes and share a happy memory...maybe easing back in with a quick one will get the old wheels turning for a more elaborate post. Also, I actually picked out a rather shitty cantaloupe on my own and I really miss my old man tonight. Them's the breaks....