Missing comes last

My dad

James D. Cook
1933 - 2017

Where there has been love, tears come first. 

Where there has been suffering, relief comes next.

The plans – what to say, where to be – wrestle you from your moments of reflection. 

You're surprised. 

You think you're doing well on top of that wave, not falling in like you thought you would.

Because the business of dealing with death feels, blessedly, like coping with death.

Missing comes last.

Missing comes in line at the supermarket.

When a song plays.

When a photo surfaces.

When a memory  - the way they looked when they were amused, frustrated, relieved – appears before your eyes while you're looking for a parking space somewhere.

It comes with knowing you'll deal with some thing alone now,  for the first time. 

You begin to forget what they looked like when they were failing

When they went quiet

When they stopped smiling

Now, while missing is happening, you're hearing the sound of their laugh again

The feel of their goodbye hug

The look on their face when they first spotted you in a restaurant, and raised a hand, "Right here."

You forget how you worried

Sat in the car and cried

Prayed in guilty silence for a swift and gentle end

Now, when missing is happening, you reflect on what they taught you:

Not to take yourself too seriously

Not to hold grudges

Not to lose your sense of humor – ever. EVER.

Not to waste your gifts if you are lucky enough to know what they are.

To be fair, forgiving, and above all, generous.

You wonder if you said "Thank you" enough.

You wonder if you said "I love you" enough.

You wonder if you did enough about it when you missed them.

When missing is happening, you don't think so, even though you know you did.  

You fall in. 

The wave tosses you, swallows you.

The feelings stop you in your tracks, take your breath away.

You cry. In your kitchen, in your car, in a shop when the sales person hands you a top and says "Is this too bright for your event?"

You remember more every day, and it  feels like too much.

This is you, walking in the restaurant, looking for that hand. 

And this, when missing is happening, is when your loved person, who has already taken their place beside you, says, "Right here."

Forever.

Goodbye, Dad.

A thing I learned in November about trees, leaves and love.

Here are some brave
 trees showing their bark.

I love November.

Last week, I watched a storm of leaves swirling outside my window. My cat Gus darted left and right on the sill, trying to follow the path of each one that broke free and sailed into the air.  

I wonder why some leaves hang on so much longer than others, but for now, those sturdy trees and their twisty, intricate branches are stark and without cover.  Against the November sky, the contrast is striking or poetic, depending on how you wish to view it.

You see where I'm going with this, right?   

Several years ago, when all of my siblings and I were busy with marriage and kids and the general chaos of life's middle third, we saw each other at usual intervals, the Fourth of July, on Christmas Eve, etc. 

We were together enough to have conversations and enjoy each other, but while our lives grew bigger and richer with each year, we didn't necessarily know each other better, it seemed to me.

That's common.

But, at some point it began to bother me that if I'd been given a quiz about the pivotal  things in the lives of all of my siblings  - what they were thinking about, struggling with, conquering - I wasn't sure I'd pass. 

Disclosure, sharing the things that make you the tree you really are, evolves of  trust and history of course. But ask any tree, when you disclose, you lose your leaves and then, there you are with your  bark showing, making you vulnerable to the elements: judgment, approval, criticism. 

Not showing your bark isn't untrue. For some of us, probably most of us, it's more comfortable to show our leaves. But it is true, that when you do let it show, you're trading vulnerability for the possibility of being loved by someone who is trying to shed their own leaves. 

We are all vulnerable, under our leaves

about something.

We are also capable of accepting

when someone needs it.

and of forgiving.

when someone asks for it.

After our younger brother died, and my sister-in-law lost her mother, some of us gathered for the first time to celebrate Thanksgiving together. There were seventeen of us. We laughed and told stories, and if different and busy lives had made us unfamiliar with each other's day to day,  it was not evident that day, nor has it been since.

I lost a lot of leaves that Thanksgiving, and more over the years and months that followed in all of my relationships. Pretty regularly, I think about everyone more, and more than I wonder what they are thinking about, struggling with and conquering, I ask them to tell me. 

I love November.

I love the way we shed those leaves, easy ones first, harder ones later. If it feels risky and cold at times, you know that in the spring, your cover will be new and fresh and lovely and your bark will be happier, too.

Ask any tree. Good things happen when you aren't covered in old, expired leaves anymore.

So love November with me. And when life is whipping by, don't keep your leaves from leaving their tired twigs. 

It's too hard.

Let them fly on the wind. 

Cheers to you, and all the trees in your forest. Enjoy your Thanksgiving with all your bark.

You don't need the right words. You need something that might be easier.

Here is a picture of honesty

I have a greeting card that I like so much, I bought two of them and I hope I never need either.

It says:  I'm really sorry I haven't been in touch. I didn't know what to say. 

Whether you would send that card or not, the person who does is conveying that their sympathy is real, and probably larger than their ability to express it with the "right words." 

I like that. 

It wasn't until my brother died that I learned - from the receiving end - how much less really is more when people are feeling that absent the "right words," they have failed to comfort you. 

I remember being incredibly moved when someone looked in my eyes and said, simply, "You are going to miss him so much."

Because that was true, and the person who said it understood my feelings, more than he wrestled with making me understand his. 

Here are some thoughts about that.

When someone has suffered loss

...or has been hurt

...or is afraid

...or isolated

...or is alone

Don't worry about what to say.

Be able to say nothing.

No one is waiting for you to come up with something. 

No one is going to be disappointed.

No one is going to doubt your depth of feeling.

Don't worry about how well you can describe your sadness.

Be willing to imagine theirs. 

Keep your heart wide open.

Don't worry about the right words.

If you're present and listening and feeling

that's better than many things you could say.

Don't worry about the right actions.

If you can hold someones eyes, someone's hand

that's as right as actions get.

Don't worry about where to stand or sit.

If you are standing with a person in their place of pain

and you can give up the duty of right words

you are where you should be.

Far easier than finding the right words 

is looking into the eyes of a lost person

and saying with the part of your heart that knows: 

"You are hurting so much right now and I am here with you." 

They will hear you.