The Comets of Memorial Day

Meditations on Death II

It comes like flashes. Comets across the sky.

“Try a Little Tenderness” comes on, and I remember singing karaoke with him.

I pass his old apartment and remember stinking it up after a sweaty day of ultimate.

I have a sudden urge to do something juvenile and ridiculous, and he is the first person I want to call.

It’s been seven months since Paul died. In some ways it feels like ages ago, and then like a flash, it doesn’t feel real.

This weekend is Memorial Day.

A day to honor and pay tribute to those who have passed. For years, this meant flowers on the gravestones of generations who built my family, community and the world I enjoy today. Now it has a different meaning.

It is less celebratory. Less thankfulness for sacrifice. Less purposeful.

Instead, it’s a reminder of stupidity.

How could someone with so much yet to give be taken away? Why do I want to remember that?

Silver linings abound.

Typically an optimist, I thought I would be the one finding those silver linings for everyone.

Sure, I’ve spent more time with good friends due to his passing. I’ve kept in touch with people I probably would have drifted away from. I think more about my own mortality and am more mindful and present with that in my mind.

But these silver linings? I could have gotten them from a book or greeting card:

Keep in touch with your friends.

Be thankful for what you have.

Love life.

This litany of postcard mantras isn’t why Paul passed.

There isn’t a reason he passed. I can make the best of his passing, but he didn’t have to leave for me to become a better person.

So what to do with this day of memory?

This year, at least, it’s a fucking comet shower.

I want every memory to pass over me like a waterfall, knocking me on my ass, leaving me bruised, teary-eyed and hurt.

It is too easy, (or maybe necessary?), to go back to routine. The predictablity of our day-to-day lives save us from the hurt and pain of constant comets.

So one day a year, this Memorial Day, I’m opening up the wounds and grabbing the salt. I know I will always have flashes of him that cut the routine.

For one day a year, however, I can look up, eyes peeled, and watch for him shooting across the sky.

WHOOSH!