Grief


I. Shock

A name leaps from the obituary page, 
a name I never wanted to see, 
a name I always knew I would find someday, 
long before my own.

Your name. 

A newspaper article I didn't read the day before. 
I thought it was about the weather. 
Ignorance is bliss?

A long day of waiting for the unknown.
A brightly lit room. 
A line of strangers.
A flag draped casket. 
A photograph I knew existed, 
but never saw, 
a forgotten promise from a letter faded with age. 
Voices on a telephone long ago 
now standing in front of me.

Words. Handshakes. Helplessness.

A long sleepless night.
A grey morning. 
Familiar faces. 
A small white church. 
Sitting next to a flag draped casket, 
touching the side, 
remembering a night so long ago, 
two cars parked close, 
drivers' doors almost touching, 
windows rolled down, 
my arm stretched through tears from the sky, 
holding your hand until your eyes stopped raining. 
Now the rain is mine.

Words. Hymns. Hopelessness.

Carrying a flag draped casket 
those last few steps to a grave. 

Your grave. 

I stood by your casket and wondered
if I had stood by you enough in life.

A house. 
A familiar kitchen. 
Standing in rooms I'd never seen before. 
Another photograph. 
Strangers. 
Food. 
I have no appetite.

Stopping by the cemetery on the way home, 
the flowers and earth still fresh. 
I tell myself it's because you might be lonely. 
No. 
It's because I am lonely.
The rain inside my heart begins.


II. Denial

A quiet road. 
A driving rain. 
An overburdened raincoat. 
Broken pieces of glass and plastic at my feet. 
It's not real.

A dimly lit garage. 
Huge tow trucks. 
A small white car. 
I reach out and touch the shattered glass, 
the bent and twisted steel. 
It's still not real.

It wasn't you. 
It was somebody else. 
The accident was faked. 
You're on a secret mission. 
You're in witness protection. 
You're hiding in a city up north. 
I'll drive up there one day, 
and turn a corner on a busy street, 
and you'll be there. 
You'll shake your head, 
"No, don't talk! 
Pretend you don't know me! 
I'll call you later with the details!" 
It's all a scam. 
It's not you in that grave. 
It wasn't you in that car. 
It didn't happen. 
You'll be back. 
I'll wait. 
This can't be real.


III. Anger

A beautiful spring day. 
A bright sun in a clear blue sky. 
Flowers are blooming. 
Birds singing. 
The air is warm and fresh. 
I sit in a crowded little office, 
heavy with the smell of cigarettes, 
a loose-leaf notebook in my lap.
I'm not sure I have the courage 
to open the cover 
and face the truth. 
It's the police report on your accident.

I stare at the cover. 
If you were sitting in my place, 
would you have hesitated? 
No. 
You weren't afraid of anything,
or anyone,
and if you were, 
your pride wouldn't let you show it. 
I open the cover.

Words. Drawings. Best guesses. 

A blue and white envelope. 
Thirty-six color photographs. 
The road. 
The vehicles.
You.

I close the book. 
I'm a good actor.

The sun is shinning. 
Birds are singing. 
A warm breeze caresses me,
as I sit by your grave. 
I am blind with rain.
A thunderstorm is forming in my heart. 
I can feel it growing. 
The police don't know what happened. 
I do. 
I feel the storms' fury. 
It's coming.

A snowy night a few years back. 
A busy city street. 
You were driving, 
I was co-pilot. 
You were talking, 
smoking, 
laughing, 
full of life. 
I was sitting next to you, 
enjoying being with you, 
and suddenly realizing 
that we were over the center line. 
You hadn't noticed. 
I spoke, 
and you turned the wheel, 
the car sliding back to its proper lane. 
That was once.

Later that night, 
as we drove too quickly behind the church, 
you didn't see the ice on the driveway. 
The corner came, 
you turned the wheel, 
and the car ignored you. 
The swing-set in the children's playground 
got closer and closer. 
The curb stopped us. 
We looked at each other, 
amazed at our good fortune.
Then we laughed nervously, 
and discussed what lurid headline 
the town newspaper would have read 
had we hit the swing-set. 
That was twice. 

The same night. 
Two in the morning, 
and a dozen miles away.
A quiet little town between nowhere 
and not anywhere. 
You made a wrong turn by the town green. 
You stopped, 
backed up, 
turned around, 
pulled forward, 
slammed on the brakes, 
and swore that stone wall wasn't there before. 
I hadn't seen it either. 
We sat there wondering 
how it leapt out at us like that. 
That was thrice. 
I should have been counting.

Your driving almost killed us 
three times that night. 
Your driving got you speeding tickets 
on other nights. 
I know. 
I paid for some of them.

The fury is here. 
It overwhelms me.
I hear a voice yelling at you, 
as though you can hear in eternity.
"You killed yourself with your lousy driving!"

It's my voice.


IV. Depression

Eleven o'clock at night.
A beat-up car parked in the driveway
of a quiet cemetery.
A full moon.
Kneeling on hard, snow-less ground.
A small American flag snapping smartly
in a bitter wind.
I'm trying to ignore the cold.
I'm failing.

Reaching out and placing
a white carnation on the footstone.
The flower is already frozen.
My fingers ache from the cold.
My heart aches from life.
It's been a year.
I've been here often.
The days are a blur.
I'm drifting through my life.
Directionless.
Is it still really mine?

Why do I come here?
I'm lonely.
And you are here.
I imagine you sitting by your grave
watching me.
Someday, you will reveal yourself
to my eyes,
a reward for my loyalty.
But not tonight.

I thought about joining you
those first few months,
smashing my car into a tree,
sitting quietly and willing my heart to stop beating.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
I made excuses.
"You'll come for me when it's time," 
"You need someone to remember you,
and honor your resting place."
In the end, I knew they were lies.
I didn't want to die.
That's all there was to it.
I didn't want to die.

I shook off Despair's grip on my life.
Misery is still wrapped around me.
I don't have the will to break free.
Not yet, not yet.
Someday.

I feel empty without you,
a hollow shell.
I know I should fill myself from within.
I don't have the energy.

The wind howls.
I'm so cold.


V. Understanding

A peaceful day in the Fall.
Sitting under a maple tree, 
watching the leaves drift through the air.
Reds, golds, and browns
land on me and around me.
My thoughts are as clear and fresh
as the air.

Did you have to die?
Was it fated,
the work of the stars,
predestined and unchangeable?
Would it be comforting to know
that it was beyond everyone's hands,
unpreventable?

It was an accident.
There was no fate,
no predestination,
just a series of random factors that when added
equaled disaster.

It was snowing.
The road was slippery.
Visibility was bad.
You were driving too fast.
You always drove too fast.
I know.
I rode with you many a night.

Your car was rear wheel drive,
high powered and feather-light.
You had a coffee mug in your right hand.
I know.
The handle was still in your fingers 
when they found you.

You were on your way to work.
You might have been thinking about 
the new job you applied for,
or the condo you wanted to buy, 
or your boyfriend
and how you were going to introduce him 
to your family.
Or perhaps, you were thinking about
the ski weekend you missed.
It doesn't matter.
You weren't paying attention.
I know.
I rode with you many a night
when your mind was elsewhere.
I know the feeling.
I've done it myself.

You rounded the curve.
You drifted to the wrong side of the road.
The van appeared in the swirling snow.
You jerked the steering wheel to the right
with your left hand.
On a dry road,
that would have worked.
You would have escaped.
But the road was far from dry,
and all you escaped from was your life.

The rear wheels slid to the left,
and took the car with them.
Your drivers' door hit the van's bumper,
and your car folded around that spot.

The first rescuer was there in five minutes,
but five minutes is meaningless
when you're dead.

I understand what happened.
I understand all the factors
that added up and equaled
disaster.
It was an accident.
I understand.
But that doesn't mean I have to like it.


VI. Acceptance.

A quiet cemetery.
A cold, wintry afternoon.
A light snow falls.
The wind dances the flakes around me.
Standing next to your grave
watching the snowflakes cover your footstone.
Two years I have been coming here.
My heart has healed.

Accept that you're gone?
Only begrudgingly.
Once I would have shouted
"Never!"
and swore on my loyalty to you
never to accept your death.
But life has a way 
of draining the never out of you.

I know I cannot will you back. 
I tried.
I failed. 
That is as it should be.
I must let you go now,
put you to rest.

You will always be in my mind,
and in my heart,
a comforting memory.
I am glad I knew you.
My life would have been much emptier
without your smile.
Forgive me 
for missing you too much.
But that is the nature of grief
and loss.

I've dampened the fire 
I built for you inside me.
There are other fires
that I've neglected.
I must tend to them again.

Till we meet again, my friend.
Till we meet again.



Ed Hoyer, Jr.
grimfacts@grimfacts.org
Copyright 1992, 2004