Swell

Abundant metaphors. A bit too tight.

Dad, I went searching through videos to hear some of your voice today. I thought calling your phone would be too weird. Mom’s there, without you, and here’s a call on your phone from the oldest daughter.

Today I realized your voice mail messages will go away with your cell phones. I don’t want to lose the bits of you left behind. Something’s too near panic, and I have to swallow it.

I don’t know how to be nice right now, I’m trying. Mad, so mad. Stages of grief, they say. Well your grandson is furious at the world and so am I and we’re too alike anyway, and now I’m all dyscognitive. They call it dyscognitive. It means your mind is messed up.

I sat on the floor for a long time last night and I knew I needed to sleep and then it was midnight and I hadn’t done anything. All day. I must have done something.

Today is new. A few minutes of brightness, this afternoon. I told my friend your story. She already knows it. She listened anyway. I came home and I wondered, how exactly did I talk about you all day? All day. Good friend.

Now I’m here. Typing and yes, a little crying. The day after your funeral, I think…I touched your dog tag and guitar pick. I set them down. Fast. I tried to put them back the way you’d set them. Too late. I handed your music book to my husband and there’s a saying about turning on a dime.

There’s a rating scale for pain, and now I think my fours were really twos before. I catch myself holding my breath. Breathe. Remember. Breathe. Bend. Sway. Light as a feather, stiff as a board.

I’m the big sister. Oh, my little sisters. I can feel one running. Light, like a roadrunner. Fast. She’s going to run out of gas, then what? The other one is sturdy in her steadfast march against the gravity of a million stars. Onward.

Irrational thought for this day, Why do I deserve to be so sad? We’re all sad. Why can’t I fold in, close in, collapse in until it’s all passed? Be quiet; at least quieter. Black hole.

That would be like dying and I’m very much alive. Enough to want to scratch free from this. Frantic? Restless? Tired. I want to sleep.

Everything is a little different now. Things I can’t articulate. I’m forty one and that’s scary. Off the map. Uncharted.

I’ll be needing a bit more sleep.

Tanya writes, teaches yoga and mindfulness, and consults with schools and agencies to better understand how trauma and stress impact our youth, families, and our communities. You can learn more about her work at www.breathebebrave.com