This year, I've been riding high on Christmas. I threw myself into the holidays with more gusto than I've shown in years, seven to be exact. I hauled all the lights & shit out of the garage, played every Christmas cd, especially the old ones, shopped like a fool, baked a million gluten-free Christmas cookies, and wore about six different Christmas sweatshirts. One day that I was rocking a Rudolph sweatshirt, red converse, and the huge Mariah Carey gold hoops with Santa picked out in glittering crystal letters inspired one of my students to say, "Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on." I was manic. I felt like a little bird frantically beating her wings to stay aloft, because if I paused for even a minute I would have FEELINGS, and I was having none of that this year. I raced like an elf on meth through minutes and days, and meanwhile I got circles under my eyes and periodically felt my heart pounding high and fast all the way up in my neck. But I was keeping it together, I felt.
I hate driving to school in the morning when the music sucks. When good songs play on the radio, I feel my mojo rev and I'm ready to face another day of frustration, fun, backtalk and sometimes barf. I'm ready for nine year olds. This morning there was no music. It was all commercials, and I had resigned myself to a long day when I flipped to a new station right as the 101 was turning into the 33, and it was the end of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Springsteen. I was smiling and singing along, and Bruce was singing over Clarence doing his jolly ho-ho-hos, and suddenly I remarked to myself, "Clarence Clemons is dead too," and my voice was breaking in all the same places as Springsteen. Only his voice was breaking with laughter, and my face was suddenly wet. I started sobbing all over myself, the road blurring before my eyes. Oh no, NO, I thought to myself, why is this happening NOW? I have to go to WORK. Luckily I didn't have any makeup on yet and I cleaned myself up in the parking lot and I got through my day, and I even allowed myself to pause for minutes at a time and talked emotionally with a couple of my friends that are going through some family shit themselves.
During one of my manic episodes, Sharon and I had to make way for the Christmas happenings, so we went through a couple of Greg's boxes, and I took home a stack of his books. I've been rereading them. I forgot how titillated my 15yr old brain was by Lucy Mancini's sex problem, and how Easy Rawlins was in a war before he became a private dick, and how Pennywise took other shapes besides a clown. But I didn't forget the joy of helping myself to Greg's huge collection of books, and how he never caught me with something and said, "I don't think you're old enough to be reading that," except for a Saul Bellow novel, and he was right about that one.
Another thing I forgot: I was going through some old notes tonight when I found one from my Aunt Sue about the Christmas letters Greg used to enclose with our cards. And my first thought wasn't, Man but he used to slave over those letters for a month, or Whoa, I was a dumb kid to be embarrassed that my dad was proud of me and wrote about it. Instead it was, Huh, Greg used to write Christmas letters. I had forgotten about that.
I'm afraid of forgetting.
I'm afraid because the pain's not so raw anymore, but it's closer now to a decade without my pops, and 7 years out feels a lot farther than 6. When someone first dies, it's like an ice pick piercing, sharp and narrow and deep, impossible to ignore. 7 years later it's like a soft hole edged in sand, shallower but wider, with more sand slipping imperceptibly away by the second. You don't always remember what's missing, until something jabs you right in the wound and you think, oh- that's right. Nothing will ever be the same again. I have lost someone who will never come back, and not wishing nor pouting nor any goddamn thing will ever make it right.
I fucking hate the last day of school before winter break. It will always be the day that Greg died. It will always sting, it will always remind me.
And yet, wallowing ain't gonna bring him back either. If I call in sick and get drunk as hell by 10am, Greg won't come back. If I go to work and yell at an undeserving kid because he's being obnoxious and I have zero patience, Greg won't come back. So I might as well put on some trashy Santa earrings and a pair of red converse, because I'm doing the best I can and it's a fact that I miss my dad. Just a plain fact. Tomorrow I want to be gentle with myself and those around me, because even the forgotten memories are better than a lot of people get ever, and I want to honor my dad.
Merry Christmas, pops, and I love you.
5 comments:
So many things! I'm afraid of forgetting too, and I'm only 3 months into this fatherless shit. I'm afraid I have the opposite problem - I keep waiting to FEEL and nothing's happening. That's part of my fear of forgetting - I'm afraid that the further I get from his death, the more I'll forget, especially since I haven't even been emotionally knocked on my ass yet, ya know what I mean? Idk. I guess I just feel really empty, too. Thanks for sharing <3 maybe we can share more soon over a beer or whatever you're drinking these days ;) -- Leah
Interesting notes about Greg's books. Every time I've been to the Ponderosa, the collection on the built-in shelves in the living room always intrigued me. Such an eclectic array, I seemed to find a new title at every trip to LA. Now it's quite a comfort for me to see them there when I visit. At first I missed having his easy chair in it's usual place by the shelves, but as you said- I don't want to "wallow."
That reminds me- I have a paperback copy of "The Exorcist" that I believe I borrowed from Greg a while back. I'll try to remember to bring it the next time we're in the same locale. Also, I don't think I have any of Greg's Christmas letters, but I've saved several of the kooky gift tags he wrote for me that you should see.
Anyhoo- another inspirational blog- thanks and I love you, Max!
Uncle Bear
<3 <3 <3 <3 Thanks for sharing. Your words are comforting. I have the very same fear of forgetting and it tears at my heart everyday. I'll take a page from your book and put on the "trashy Santa earrings and a pair of red converse" when the times comes. If I forget, I hope you remind me.
Thank you so much everyone for your kind words. I love it when people take the time to comment directly on the blog, as this is where I return for comfort again and again. Leah, I can only say to be grateful for each day that goes by without a knocking. It'll knock you flat and it's almost always unexpected. Your devotion to your dad shines through in every gesture and memorial; trust me, you don't need to wail or rend yer hair.
Uncle Bear, you and Dillon are my closest living ties to Greg. I am so grateful for any time I get to share the same locale with you. I love you. Don't think I'll be rereading the Exorcist though- even I have my limits!
Jena, I'm not a big believer in the usefulness of regret, but if there's something I wish I had done differently, it would have been to have written down more of what my dad said, his memories, stuff about his life before I was born. I was a good listener but not a very good journalist, and I wish I had access to those memories now. So ask away (and write down what she says later, maybe over a glass of wine). xoxox
sheesh, this journey, Max, this journey. What would I do without you to help me navigate it? As I go back and reread some of these, it is like reading some of them for the first time, because I think when I read them the first time, when you first post them, they almost render me undone............your words are the gateway to so many pent up emotions for the rest of us, that we are either afraid to let loose, or unable to articulate, unable to open some tightly shut doors that keep us from letting go, and continue living with Greg as always part of us, but not part of our new days in the old way. See? I am rambling, but you know what I mean. You are such a wonderful reflection of your dad and your own bright shining light, all rolled into one, and I love you so so much. Always will. xoxoxox mom
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