Grief Doesn’t Stay in the Past
There are days that ask nothing of you. And days that don’t give you a choice.
May 6th is one of those days.
Twelve years ago, my children’s father died. Since then, this day has carried its own weight—one I don’t have to go looking for. It arrives on its own, felt more in the body than remembered in the mind.
These are two short pieces from a larger work I’ve been writing, Yelling at Dead People. They come from the kind of remembering that lives in the body more than the mind.
Lego Dad by Erica Richmond
(found in Parenting After Suicide)
“Let’s play lego, okay Rain?”
Tuesday night, making dinner. It’s Cinco de Mayo and ordinarily I’d be making tacos or nachos or quesadillas but you’ve ruined that forever.
“Sure, but let’s make people.”
Last year I went all out. Colourful scarves. Buena Vista Social Club blaring. Okay. Yes, I know they are a Cuban band but I was in Guatemala when I first heard them, which is also not Mexico but the closest I’d ever been. As we were listening to Candela and dipping chips in salsa, you were setting your plan in motion.
“Okay!”
What’s the opposite of Mexican food? Bland-ass chicken and potatoes. The kids won’t care. They’ll add ketchup. I should be getting excited about Mother’s Day in a week. I should be getting excited about my birthday in 21 days. I should be getting excited about the flowers and the buds on the trees and the birds. But instead, I’ve been living in a hellscape.
“How about a red body! This one has a dragon shirt.”
We were just starting to sleep again. We were making plans for our future: ones that didn’t include you. And this week, leading up to the anniversary, you’re back. A heavy plague clings to everyone. Even Lucy, our cat, has been hissing more than normal.
“That’s so cool! Where are the heads?”
May was supposed to be my month. You could have chosen any other month. I would have given you all of September to coincide with your birthday. It’s not like you would have had to coordinate a plane crash or mugging gone wrong or heart attack; you just had to choose a different day to do it.
“Look at his curly hair! Doesn’t he look like Daddy? Mom! Look!”
“Oh wow–that does look just like Daddy!”
*All three of us burst out laughing
“Hello Lego Dad! I missed you. Let’s play!”
This chicken needs some paprika and cumin. Ay Candela, Candela, Candela me quemo ae….
D-Day by Erica Richmond
D-Day is May 6, 2014. I know this because I have five copies of his death certificate in the cardboard box of important documents that lives above the filing cabinet in my office.
Internal ecosystems were dismantled overnight. One day here. The next, gone.
Before Daddy Died our lives were not uncomplicated. To imply otherwise would be an indignity to the truth.
After Daddy Died we shrunk together. We detangled our complication, one slow knot at a time.
Each and every year, D-Day arrives in our bones and descends in our breath.
All while the certificates of death collect dust.
There isn’t a neat way to hold a day like this. This is just how I’m holding it today.
During a public reading of Parenting After Suicide at Take Cover Books in Peterborough, Ontario.
