LIFE
When You Are Gone
Who speaks of us and what will be said?
It is by sheer coincidence that my last two articles touched on Death and Intimacy. This morning when I woke up, and enjoyed my coffee while selecting and reading my Medium stories, I chanced upon a beautifully written tribute by Lee J. Bentch “My Daily Dose of Grief Has Finally Faded Like the Evening Sun” published in The Wind Phone.
Its opening sentences grabbed my heart almost immediately, and though Wednesday morning had only just begun, I knew this read had made my day. It goes:
“I have two cremation urns on my mantle. One is for my wife, the other for my oldest daughter.
Every day, multiple times, I see them. I feel their presence, reflect on the past and then channel my energy to a positive outlook.”
I looked out my window and I could almost see through the kaleidoscope of my mind, the dancing waves of aurora borealis. Impossible, I know. But it came from the love, bond, and memory Bentch holds dearly for his wife and daughter.
Now and then, I write essays that mock the positioning of modern love and relationships. I do so with no malice or bitter animus. Despite the satirical voice, deep within, I am a romantic who holds dear to the conventions of love that rest upon the bedrock of all things traditional.
Removed and unfamiliar with the nuances and trappings of online dating platforms, I grew up watching my parents adore each other weathering 50 years of marriage. It is a feat I accept I will not experience. If I could have 20 years of theirs, or even less, I consider myself blessed in this lifetime.
I was deeply moved by the words Bentch had for his wife. Simple but honest; tender with resolute:
“Our relationship was built on love, trust, communication, tolerance, patience, and perseverance. We had good, great, and fantastic times with a few challenges.
We were never in jeopardy of separation, divorce, or needing counseling. Together we committed to being a dedicated team amongst friends struggling with divorce, estrangement, and severe relationship problems.
Our days were spent doing things in life that, as individuals, we were driven to do. Our evenings were spent with each other. Our life paths were parallel and, at times, diverse, which was the seed of our togetherness.”
It was a breath of fresh air to the sordid mess I was hearing from people around me. From folks who want everything all at once, rushing and demanding, running and neglecting, forgetting the tempo and waltz of intimate connection needed between two people. I see the latter in my parents, I feel it in Bentch’s tribute.
What touched me the most is the detail of a mourning husband’s reality dealing with loss:
“It is remarkable how grief plays a part in our lives, whether we acknowledge it or not. I can go for many days without thinking about her. Then something triggers me to stop and take a deep breath. It could be a song, a story, a meal, or even a smell. Sometimes my memory takes me back many years, and I relive our special moments. Occasionally, I find myself with a lone tear in my eye.”
At this point, I too feel a lone tear in my eye.
We currently live in a world filled with so much active avoidance and dissonance. Intimacy is feared rather than nurtured and appreciated with curiosity and wonderment.
My mother, in her rare romantic moments, tells me: When you find the one who means something to you, you wished you had met earlier because time suddenly becomes important. You don’t want to waste it. You want to be together to get to know each other and build moments together. And she’d tell me this as she irons my father’s shirt, puffs his pillows on his side of the bed, or brushes his suits gingerly.
It isn’t the grand gestures and holidays that bind her and my father closest, it is the love she devotes to the dailiness of things, the rituals of small acts, and how my father reciprocates those efforts with respect, devotion and support. It is their mating dance for over five decades, with more to come.
To be remembered when we are below the ground speaks dearly of how we were appreciated above the ground. Bentch’s essay made me think: what would be said of me when I am gone? How would it reflect on the way I was loved?
I remember a difficult but necessary conversation I once shared with a dear friend who is no longer with us. He asked me, “Natasha, what is your biggest fear?”
It wasn’t a question to answer immediately. It took me some time to ponder and to reflect on what really mattered. Finally, I knew what it was:
It is to live a life and not have anyone know me and appreciate me for who I really am. To be buried and not have anyone love me for who I was, and deservingly.
After this revelation, I remember seeing a notification at work from my friend. It was a notification for my period. A message sent read: Your period is due in 3 days, thought you might want to go get your sanitary pads later today while I have enough time to escape to another planet.
I stopped what I was doing and burst out laughing. Inside, my heart felt warm and it was the very first time someone outside my family had braved himself to the frontiers of my privacy. And of all things, worked on my period tracker! I still laugh at the thought of it.
And when we talked and things got a little tense — especially over small, silly things — he would stop me from speaking further to check the period calendar. “Ah, that explains everything. Your period is due tomorrow. Time for me to run and avoid you for a week.” He was kidding, of course. He suffered for two.
And this happened every month, till he was gone. Before he did, I asked him in one of our casual reflections what were the things he loved about me that made my existence worth it. He replied, “Everything that drives me crazy.” I wasn’t sure at the time what that implied.
He explained, “When you love someone, you want to be part of his/her existence, thoughts, processes, and mess. You want to be there for his/her discomfort. You want to be present. You want to be the one who shows up. I want to be the one who rings your doorbell and stands outside your door. You’re the reason I’m standing. That’s the whole point, Natasha.
And that’s what I would say at your funeral, and be remembered at mine.”
Subsequently, this morning I read Chris Thompson’s piece “Coming To Peace With Death”. Like a soothing burning amber, Thompson describes with heartfelt sincerity words not commonly uttered with strength and surety:
“Sometimes I wake up in the morning and it hits me that I won’t be here someday. I am sad for a moment, thinking about those I will miss.
But it never sits long with me. I’m comfortable with the idea of our temporal existence.”
I am writing this not to throw a damp blanket over anyone with a somber expression. On the contrary. As it rains outside my window, I find it fitting to appreciate these words written by two gentlemen that remind us of why it matters to savor the moments in small sips of marvel than to haste and gulp in big amounts.
I admire how each embraces the detail and wears a badge of courage to face their adversities — despite losses — with much love and gratitude. Both, appreciating the living, and both, prepared to see otherwise.
How will I be remembered? Who will be the one to describe the life and love I lived?
I guess we’ll leave it to what lies ahead … while we pursue the art of living. Not by running, but by waltzing to the simple joys in life. And one day when we are gone, may the music of our lives continue to be played.
