Water in a Box

Grief is a funny force. And make no mistake: it is a force. One that ebbs and flows, shifts and shimmies...at the behest of what, we fail to know. David Hames died three months ago; yet, still I find grief from his passing bubbling up, breaching the surface now and again. Most times, there is within my heart a box, of sorts. A compartment encroaching no neighbor, just sitting there hardening. Solidifying. And within it there is water.

Ever notice how much we use water metaphors to describe grief? When pelted by its force, we say it "comes in waves." When clutched by its pain, we say we're "drowning beneath it." To survive it, we are left struggling just to "keep our heads above the water." And let us not forget the evidence of grief: the salty streaks of often unspoken tears marking our faces, reminding us of loss. Yes, there is water in the box. The water is grief.

Completing errands today required I start a movie in the van for Judsen. If all else fails, Cranium's Ark makes him happy every time. So in it slid with little thought or premeditation. But then I heard his voice, the remnant of a friend no more here. Perhaps our senses need the reminder - tangible evidence - of what once was, lest the water level in the box become too high, threatening to break the dam we hold so tightly in place. Maybe the dam needs to break now and then. Other times, maybe not. Today, the box found relief when, despite my initial and immediate sorrow, I smiled at the memory of a contagious laugh and silly red sneakers. Of a ukelele and master gamer of Blurt!. Of a crafter of words and writer of music. Of a father. A brother. A husband and a friend.

 Even after three months, I sometimes wrestle with the surreality of a friend who walked into a building moments before it fell on top of him. Then I talk with his wife and remember just how very real it is. Perhaps the box is organic. Mystical. Ebbing and flowing as the tides themselves, washing grief here and there as it heals a wound and strengthens a memory. I only know I smiled. And felt better. And knew that memory strong in the face of grief is also a powerful force, meandering and then honing as I brook no interference. It, too, is a force of reckoning.

Like water in a box.