Today’s prompt: Forgetting to remember. What does a shift in your grief, even a tiny, momentary one, mean to you? What does it say about loss? Or love?
I’m pretty new to this process. Five months. Twenty-two weeks. I’m not sure I’ve had many times when I’ve forgotten to remember. There’s not been a week that I didn’t realize it was Monday again and grow more tense from noon to the end of the day. There hasn’t been a month that I wasn’t acutely aware of the 24th. The word “suicide” makes me cringe. In those ways, I haven’t forgotten to remember.
Still, sometimes I laugh.
Today, for just a minute, I think I giggled at something silly the drama kids did. There are characters in every class, and their antics have pulled me along since August. My cats make me laugh. Louise is clingy, always trying to be on me or in my face; Buddy likes to attack through the shower curtain, claws and all, while I’m using the bathroom. They are crazy and annoying and I love them. The Big Bang Theory and Young Sheldon make me laugh. I watch them over and over, because on days when nothing positive can crack the surface, those two shows can get me through.
Do I feel guilty when I laugh? Do I worry that I’m forgetting Cooper? Forgetting to remember the heartbreak? Just a little.
Mostly, I think of those occasional light spots as respite care. After all, my body, brain, and soul certainly need a damn break now and then. The sadness doesn’t go away, but in these moments, maybe the weight in my chest lifts so I can take a deep breath. Maybe my shoulders retract from my ears. Maybe a release of endorphins gets me through another few hours. Another day.
So I take what I can get.
Bernie Sanders inauguration day memes? You betcha. Reliably funny TV shows? Absolutely. Goofy Snapchats, even though I’m terrible at it myself? Heck yes.
I can’t say how I’ll feel when more time has passed, when something resembling equilibrium is reestablished, when a Monday passes without this countdown in my head.
1:52 p.m. — a normal text exchange
2:04 p.m. — the timestamp on the note he left on his phone
2:06 p.m. — his call to 911
2:12 p.m. — his listed time of death
For now, that 20-minute span haunts me weekly. If I get through a Monday without that countdown and the subsequent hours haunting me, maybe I will feel guilty. But today, with the wounds so fresh, my tears are endless. My chest is heavy with sadness. My shoulders ache with tension.
For now, no laugh, no smile, can reach my eyes.
For now, I remember.
For now, I take what I can get.
Woods Writes 