Pummeled

Memories are soap bubbles. You can look at them, watch them float on air, but try to touch them and they pop. Make the sound with your lips--poup. Gone. Bubbles leave a soapy wetness on your finger tips. Memories leave their trail in drips and splashes of salty tears. Many of these blog entries started with dry eyes and ended with sopping wet front of my shirt, tears splashed on the inside of my glasses, and tissues in and out of the trash can next to the desk. For my most heart wrenching sobs, a Kleenex was no where near and my shirt tail or sleeve worked just as well. Disgusting, but grief has no etiquette.

Good grief uses every ounce of energy. Pummeled by grief. Pummeled is a fine word. You know you've been pummeled by grief when you are on your hands, or forearms and knees, with snot running from your nose to the floor. Aware of the clear, watery mess, I've actually stopped crying to laugh at the spectacle. A grown man reduced to a quivering mass of flesh. Sad for sure. Funny, probably not. But when all emotions are getting their shot at you, laughter can take a turn too.

Bubbles, snow flakes, rain drops, memories, there's a limit to how many you can hold--the limit is zero. At first memories were more like apples, I thought I could hold a bushel of them in my arms, and a few in my pockets. I didn't need my arms or hands for anything. Sitting still I could hold them. I wear the same pants everyday. When I had to move, I lost small apples then another then another. They kept falling out of my arms. I squeeze my arms to close the gaps, but the apples on top fell over the sides. Eventually I was left with two in each hand, four in my pockets. It was hard to free my hands. I'd have to come back to these. Eventually opportunities required a change of clothes. The old pants were put away and all of the apples were left to be attended to another day.

It has been a long time since I've been pummeled by grief. That's OK. Small incidents of eye burning, temple throbbing, tear streaming, air gasping emotional bursts fill the void nicely. They don't make me laugh, but they do their job. They clear my head and center me. I wonder about the memories. Will they be there when I want them? Maybe. But they won't be as crisp.