that?”
“Positive.”
“That’s a shame.”
For a moment, I’m thrown off by his serious expression, but then he smiles, breaking the tension and I smile too, once again nothing but a mirror to his emotions.
“Trust me, you’d know if it was.” I give him an impish nudge. “Plus, I’d like to think I could do better than lazy lines and exhausted clichés.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“So have you been to this bench before?” I rephrase with care, causing him to see through my attempt with a smirk.
I’m thankful that he plays along this time. “Yes, I come here all the time. It’s a great spot for working through thoughts and issues, or just being , you know?”
“I do know,” I tell him, and I do. I’m sure it has more to do with the location of the bench rather than any lingering traces of my father’s spirit, but it’s fitting that the best person I knew to go to for advice would have a spot in his honor that helps those seeking guidance.
“I guess it goes without saying that you come here a lot?”
“Yes, all the time. As you said, it’s a great spot for just being . Plus it has the added element for me of feeling close to my dad.” He didn’t ask, and I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tell, but I find myself confessing to him.
“I come here whenever I need one of his hugs or pieces of wisdom,” I tell him. “Or when I feel myself forgetting him,” I whisper the last line, revealing my most shameful secret to this relative stranger.
His knowing nod is without judgment or comment and somehow I’m safe in his silent support. With both of his parents dead, I’m sure he understands what I mean better than most.
“It’s tough when you stop being able to picture their faces with clarity isn’t it? Or when you find yourself thinking about them every other day or every few days, instead of every day like you used to.
“And then you’ll be doing something simple like getting dressed or taking out the trash, and you’ll remember . You feel like you’re betraying them by being too happy to remember to be sad, too preoccupied living to remember that they’re dead. Then you‘re suffocated by shame and self-loathing for letting them slip from your mind for even a single second.”
I’m left breathless by his admission which so accurately reflects my pain and guilt that as time passes, my father is becoming an afterthought.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty though.”
“No?” My tone is skeptical even to my ears.
“Definitely not. Not only would they not want it, but also it’s not physically possible to have their deaths at the forefront of your mind all day every day. Making space for other things is the brain’s way of coping and making sure you continue to live , not just survive.”
At my dubious expression, he clarifies his thoughts.
“I mean, I guess it’s technically possible to have your mind stuck on morbid repeat, but it’s not healthy. Those stuck in that crippling thought loop are nothing but prisoners of war at the mercy of depression and grief. If you don’t or can’t make room, you might as well have died along with that person. We have to make room. Thinking of other things doesn’t mean that we’ve forgotten them.”
My body trembles with the desperation to believe him. I’m scared to hope he’s telling the truth. That wherever my dad is, he doesn’t feel abandoned and disappointed in me ‘making room,’ as Tristan calls it. That in fact, he’s the opposite of those things. He’s proud of me for living and starting to enjoy life for more than one minute, one hour, and one day at a time.
I know deep down he’s right. It goes back to my revelation a while ago that I would never leave my dad behind because he was always with me. Even if he isn’t constantly in my mind, he’s forever in my heart.
However, guilt is one of those emotions, much like sadness, that is hard to control. As much as you wish you could, you can’t just ‘snap
“Positive.”
“That’s a shame.”
For a moment, I’m thrown off by his serious expression, but then he smiles, breaking the tension and I smile too, once again nothing but a mirror to his emotions.
“Trust me, you’d know if it was.” I give him an impish nudge. “Plus, I’d like to think I could do better than lazy lines and exhausted clichés.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“So have you been to this bench before?” I rephrase with care, causing him to see through my attempt with a smirk.
I’m thankful that he plays along this time. “Yes, I come here all the time. It’s a great spot for working through thoughts and issues, or just being , you know?”
“I do know,” I tell him, and I do. I’m sure it has more to do with the location of the bench rather than any lingering traces of my father’s spirit, but it’s fitting that the best person I knew to go to for advice would have a spot in his honor that helps those seeking guidance.
“I guess it goes without saying that you come here a lot?”
“Yes, all the time. As you said, it’s a great spot for just being . Plus it has the added element for me of feeling close to my dad.” He didn’t ask, and I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tell, but I find myself confessing to him.
“I come here whenever I need one of his hugs or pieces of wisdom,” I tell him. “Or when I feel myself forgetting him,” I whisper the last line, revealing my most shameful secret to this relative stranger.
His knowing nod is without judgment or comment and somehow I’m safe in his silent support. With both of his parents dead, I’m sure he understands what I mean better than most.
“It’s tough when you stop being able to picture their faces with clarity isn’t it? Or when you find yourself thinking about them every other day or every few days, instead of every day like you used to.
“And then you’ll be doing something simple like getting dressed or taking out the trash, and you’ll remember . You feel like you’re betraying them by being too happy to remember to be sad, too preoccupied living to remember that they’re dead. Then you‘re suffocated by shame and self-loathing for letting them slip from your mind for even a single second.”
I’m left breathless by his admission which so accurately reflects my pain and guilt that as time passes, my father is becoming an afterthought.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty though.”
“No?” My tone is skeptical even to my ears.
“Definitely not. Not only would they not want it, but also it’s not physically possible to have their deaths at the forefront of your mind all day every day. Making space for other things is the brain’s way of coping and making sure you continue to live , not just survive.”
At my dubious expression, he clarifies his thoughts.
“I mean, I guess it’s technically possible to have your mind stuck on morbid repeat, but it’s not healthy. Those stuck in that crippling thought loop are nothing but prisoners of war at the mercy of depression and grief. If you don’t or can’t make room, you might as well have died along with that person. We have to make room. Thinking of other things doesn’t mean that we’ve forgotten them.”
My body trembles with the desperation to believe him. I’m scared to hope he’s telling the truth. That wherever my dad is, he doesn’t feel abandoned and disappointed in me ‘making room,’ as Tristan calls it. That in fact, he’s the opposite of those things. He’s proud of me for living and starting to enjoy life for more than one minute, one hour, and one day at a time.
I know deep down he’s right. It goes back to my revelation a while ago that I would never leave my dad behind because he was always with me. Even if he isn’t constantly in my mind, he’s forever in my heart.
However, guilt is one of those emotions, much like sadness, that is hard to control. As much as you wish you could, you can’t just ‘snap
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