Buried Sadness

Perhaps this is what happens, over time,
when you lose someone you love, little by little.

(My story is of my dad's Alzheimer's.
Your story might be similar but different, yes?)

You learn to stuff the grief deep down inside
as far from the heart as you can,
compressing it into the smallest version of what it was,
until you can no longer recognize it,
or even feel it because all the sharp edges are tucked in.

It is what you do, it's what you have to do,
for days and then years,
until eventually death arrives
and suddenly you become aware
that you no longer have to hold it in.
Now you have permission. To grieve.

But by then the sadness is buried so deeply
it becomes impossible to find the tears.

Well meaning people say things, in love and kindness,
like "he's in a better place" and you know it to be true
but the words leave you feeling selfish
because you miss the person
here and now.

So you nod and smile and don't explain
because you don't know how.
Not yet anyway.

For now, you close your eyes and smile,
like your dad used to do when he could no longer put sentences together,
recognizing that someday you will cry.

Just not yet. Not today.

A Short Story (for dad)

There was once a man on a journey that took him many places on an amazing adventure.

Some of the paths the man took were planned in advance and well thought out. Some were a complete surprise, even to him. Several turns held challenges. Much of the journey held happiness.

The man collected things on this journey. Mostly memories. He carried them in a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

At the start of his journey, the bag was empty. As he grew older, the memories came faster and faster and the canvas bag began to fill.

The man was often accompanied on his journey. Strangers turned into friends as their paths crossed and as they traveled together. He grew into a young man and married the woman he loved. They joined their memories together.

Further along the way, the man became a father and then a grandfather. More memories were collected, some by him and others by his children and grandchildren. They laughed. They joked. They talked of serious things.

The journey continued. New memories were made. Eventually the canvas bag became filled to the top. And although the man could not see the end of the road, he knew the journey itself was a gift from God. He knew that he never traveled alone. He encountered God along the way, through the people he met, the beauty he experienced, the love he felt, and the peace he encountered.

But with time something started happening to the canvas bag, which by now was dirty and worn. The seams, stretched by a full and meaningful life, began unraveling. One at a time, the memories began falling through the holes. The man could sense his loss as the memories slipped away.

His wife saw what was happening. She lovingly picked up all the memories that she could and held onto them like treasures, sharing them with family and friends. People whose lives had been touched by his.

At first it feels like a tragic end to a beautiful story. But maybe not.

Maybe, in a place beyond time and understanding, there is a battered and worn canvas bag that is right now at this very moment being mended by heavenly hands.