Pomp and Circumstance
My 4 year old spilled her fruity pebbles this morning, all over the bench she was sitting on. As she was wiping them away, in a very helpful flourish of smearing sticky milk along the pleather seat and then sweeping the tiny, half soggy pieces to their final resting place on my hardwood floors, she tipped her orange juice cup over onto the table.
I walked to the drawer and grabbed a towel, shook my head and sopped up the pulpy liquid on the table, more shifting the puddle than absorbing it as I went. I moved a stack of papers in the process, glancing at junk mail and bills I had not seen before, thanking my husband with an eyeroll for letting me know he got the mail and never opened it. I stopped short though, juice dripping through the seam in the table, a reprimand halting on my lips about the method of my daughter's cleaning. One large piece of mail caught my eye, a 9x13 envelope from the MN Dept of Health.
My husband rarely gets the mail. When he does, he rarely opens it. I think it freaks him out to see bills that he does not pay, is content to let all the dirty work happen behind the scenes, in my hands. He has told me that he doesn't like to be responsible for sorting the papers that unfold- recycling the envelopes that are ripped, saving the ones that are not, finding a home for a bill come due and a location for invitations and celebrations. I should not be surprised then to see this envelope unopened. I should not be offended that it is sitting here amid the clutter of our lives, lying in wait for who knows how many days, now tinged and tainted with spilled milk and juice.
I sighed. I could not help but sigh. It was addressed to me, this envelope, as it should be because I'm the one who asked for it to come. And it isn't unwelcome. I knew the check had cleared, that I had paid for the proof to arrive at my door. Yet here, in black and white, I really didn't want to see it. Not like this, all frustrated and unkempt , first thing in the morning, still in my pajamas and braless.
I left the rainbow of breakfast cereal to harden into concrete on my rug and floor and took that thin package up to my bed. My girls were settled into a morning cartoon and I could hear them laughing as I ascended the stairs, the weight of the paper between my fingers growing heavier as I climbed, my heart being squeezed with the effort of what I needed to do. There was no music playing in my room, no soundtrack of sympathy echoing in my head as I slit the top, peeling chunks of the seal away, ragged and torn. My fingers did not shake as I slid the single sheet from its protective cover but my heart still dropped as I read the words.
I miss the pomp and circumstance that should come with this moment. My son will never know what it is to be celebrated in this life. There is only this single sheet as solid evidence of his mere existence, and even this was cast aside by all of us, overlooked and awash in our mess, life going on without him. It isn't the first time and will not be the last.
In the first week after his death, when Grief had us in an iron grip, there were steps to be taken and decisions made. An urn to choose we thought, a vessel to house his ounce of ash, something worthy of him. I looked online and thought about shopping in a store but was daunted by the prospect. I recalled having driven by a shop that advertised locally made wooden urns and my husband called one night, telling the gentleman we'd be by to choose one shortly. I could not fathom this hasty appointment and was starting another breakdown as we loaded the car with three girls and turned on a movie to hold them, parking the still-running truck in a driveway not more than three miles from home.
Their aunt watching cartoons with them in the vehicle did little to soothe my rising emotions. My girls should be helping, I thought, though knew better. Getting the three of them to agree on anything, especially something as unique and meaningful as this, would be impossible. How was I going to choose? Being put on the spot and feeling a need to rush, not wanting to waste my family's patience on indecision, I picked a lovely round urn and paid the man, carrying the warm wood out to the dark and freezing night, unsure of where to place it once I reached my seat. True to form the girls immediately fought over it, picking the lid from the base and coveting what they could. The moment to make a beautiful memory was over, in its place was a wanting for all that I can never have.
There will be so many more moments like these, when I want to make the day into more but then will not make it happen. I am continually struck with the frustration that it shouldn't be this way. I want the drama and gaiety. I want the slideshow of a life well-lived and well-loved. I want the planning and worry, the ordering and paying that comes with milestones and accomplishments. I want to glory in report cards and hand-made preschool gifts. I want to pick out baseball cleats and football helmets, button-down shirts and ties.
Instead, I get this. I get a meaningless piece of paper to file away, not even worth locking up because there is no identity to steal. I get a single album of my son, photos I am thankful to have but never enough to sustain me for life. I get a stout wooden box to hold his small foot and arm replicas and an even smaller one to hold his remains. I should be happy to have as much as I do but I'm not. I doubt we will ever choose to make a shrine to our son, to have an event in his honor beyond his funeral, already said and done. I don't have hope or even the desire to start many traditions even within our families, not specifically for him, mainly because I don't want to be let down when something else comes up or we just plain forget. I will learn to be content with what we do have for mementos and memories of moments and I'm sure we'll come up with something that will make all of us happy as the time passes, some way to remember and enjoy his presence.
I walked to the drawer and grabbed a towel, shook my head and sopped up the pulpy liquid on the table, more shifting the puddle than absorbing it as I went. I moved a stack of papers in the process, glancing at junk mail and bills I had not seen before, thanking my husband with an eyeroll for letting me know he got the mail and never opened it. I stopped short though, juice dripping through the seam in the table, a reprimand halting on my lips about the method of my daughter's cleaning. One large piece of mail caught my eye, a 9x13 envelope from the MN Dept of Health.
My husband rarely gets the mail. When he does, he rarely opens it. I think it freaks him out to see bills that he does not pay, is content to let all the dirty work happen behind the scenes, in my hands. He has told me that he doesn't like to be responsible for sorting the papers that unfold- recycling the envelopes that are ripped, saving the ones that are not, finding a home for a bill come due and a location for invitations and celebrations. I should not be surprised then to see this envelope unopened. I should not be offended that it is sitting here amid the clutter of our lives, lying in wait for who knows how many days, now tinged and tainted with spilled milk and juice.
I sighed. I could not help but sigh. It was addressed to me, this envelope, as it should be because I'm the one who asked for it to come. And it isn't unwelcome. I knew the check had cleared, that I had paid for the proof to arrive at my door. Yet here, in black and white, I really didn't want to see it. Not like this, all frustrated and unkempt , first thing in the morning, still in my pajamas and braless.
I left the rainbow of breakfast cereal to harden into concrete on my rug and floor and took that thin package up to my bed. My girls were settled into a morning cartoon and I could hear them laughing as I ascended the stairs, the weight of the paper between my fingers growing heavier as I climbed, my heart being squeezed with the effort of what I needed to do. There was no music playing in my room, no soundtrack of sympathy echoing in my head as I slit the top, peeling chunks of the seal away, ragged and torn. My fingers did not shake as I slid the single sheet from its protective cover but my heart still dropped as I read the words.
I miss the pomp and circumstance that should come with this moment. My son will never know what it is to be celebrated in this life. There is only this single sheet as solid evidence of his mere existence, and even this was cast aside by all of us, overlooked and awash in our mess, life going on without him. It isn't the first time and will not be the last.
In the first week after his death, when Grief had us in an iron grip, there were steps to be taken and decisions made. An urn to choose we thought, a vessel to house his ounce of ash, something worthy of him. I looked online and thought about shopping in a store but was daunted by the prospect. I recalled having driven by a shop that advertised locally made wooden urns and my husband called one night, telling the gentleman we'd be by to choose one shortly. I could not fathom this hasty appointment and was starting another breakdown as we loaded the car with three girls and turned on a movie to hold them, parking the still-running truck in a driveway not more than three miles from home.
Their aunt watching cartoons with them in the vehicle did little to soothe my rising emotions. My girls should be helping, I thought, though knew better. Getting the three of them to agree on anything, especially something as unique and meaningful as this, would be impossible. How was I going to choose? Being put on the spot and feeling a need to rush, not wanting to waste my family's patience on indecision, I picked a lovely round urn and paid the man, carrying the warm wood out to the dark and freezing night, unsure of where to place it once I reached my seat. True to form the girls immediately fought over it, picking the lid from the base and coveting what they could. The moment to make a beautiful memory was over, in its place was a wanting for all that I can never have.
There will be so many more moments like these, when I want to make the day into more but then will not make it happen. I am continually struck with the frustration that it shouldn't be this way. I want the drama and gaiety. I want the slideshow of a life well-lived and well-loved. I want the planning and worry, the ordering and paying that comes with milestones and accomplishments. I want to glory in report cards and hand-made preschool gifts. I want to pick out baseball cleats and football helmets, button-down shirts and ties.
Instead, I get this. I get a meaningless piece of paper to file away, not even worth locking up because there is no identity to steal. I get a single album of my son, photos I am thankful to have but never enough to sustain me for life. I get a stout wooden box to hold his small foot and arm replicas and an even smaller one to hold his remains. I should be happy to have as much as I do but I'm not. I doubt we will ever choose to make a shrine to our son, to have an event in his honor beyond his funeral, already said and done. I don't have hope or even the desire to start many traditions even within our families, not specifically for him, mainly because I don't want to be let down when something else comes up or we just plain forget. I will learn to be content with what we do have for mementos and memories of moments and I'm sure we'll come up with something that will make all of us happy as the time passes, some way to remember and enjoy his presence.
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