When Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, they returned to their father with Joseph's robe, dipped in the blood of an animal. And Joseph's father mourned for his son, presuming him dead. He tore his clothes and declared that he would not rest until he could join his son "in the grave." That's right, he declared, insisted even, that there would be no end to his grief other than his own death. He allotted every remaining day to his pain.
When I read this story, this time, I paid more attention to the father than I remember from times before. He reminded me of my own grandpa: a man I tried to encourage for the past year and a half as we both walked on without my dad in our lives. One time, I went to visit Grandpa in a rehabilitation center and the room was filled with a thick despair and fog: a depression so heavy, like running in the sand on an overcast and drizzly day, but wearing a sumo wrestling suit, or something? I can't say I've been so great at metaphorical thinking through my grief. Nothing seems to pinpoint or tame the emotions I feel, or even the lack of emotions: not even poetry. So, maybe it felt more like when someone you love just... dies. Anyhow, in the rehab facility, we sat on the edge of Grandpa's bed, and I finally realized that I have nothing to say. I'd tried. I had always tried; a part of me believed that Dad would want me to lift Grandpa's spirits. That night, I squeezed Grandpa's hand, he squeezed mine harder, and we cried and looked out the window for a good amount of time while the roommate at our backs filled the room with disturbing sounds and disgusting smells. A few times, we laughed about it.
In April of 2016, my dad sent me a text message asking for my "company" in Walla Walla as he filled boxes of his parents' belongings and prepared to bring them home. I hopped on a train and made the trip to be with them; we loaded up over the course of a few days, ate pancakes, and hit the road with the sweetest old couple I knew holding hands in the backseat. I could feel my dad's joy, and I shared it. This was going to be one of the greatest adventures, I thought. I dreamed of coffee mornings and coffee evenings on the regular. I dreamed of "stopping by." I dreamed of Dad being home more often, and on the road less. There were so many dreams. And when Dad slipped away from these dreams only three months later, I fought so hard to keep the dreams alive for him. I wondered where he had wanted to take Grandpa and Grandma, and how I might still be able to get them there. Even without him.
But this is where the past, the present, and even the future come together to reveal things that I am only starting to understand. Things that may sound somber, but feel like peace starting to unfold and work its way through me. So here it is: while I had my heart set on lifting Grandpa's spirits and pulling him through a revised version of our dreams, that was never the way it would have gone. He had his mind set on carrying his pain to the grave, and he had every right to make that choice. He, like Joseph's father, tore his clothes and allotted every remaining day to his pain. Of course, there were laughs in the waiting, but it was waiting: waiting to see what and who would be on the other side, even if sometimes he seemed to fear the idea of heading to the other side himself.
I know I'm different than Grandpa. Losing Dad feels like yesterday, and I'd love to wrap this thing up and live life at lightning speed sometimes just to find out for myself what it's like to join someone you love in the grave. But, I'm different. When Grandpa was my age, for instance, he was marrying Grandma, traveling to America to start a family, a life, and a legacy. He wasn't even the father of the son he lost. And so, my declarations and intentions in the waiting must be different in some ways. I'll have to find a way to keep looking ahead like Dad said when he was sick and dying. But, I'm also learning to accept that some things, even heavy and hurtful things, are not meant to be lifted from our hearts. In other words, I don't want the pain of losing Dad to ever leave me; I don't ever want to think of what we experienced lightly. I just want stronger arms so that I can carry the memories without feeling so ill-equipped... because I think the path ahead of me is going to be a long one: full of adventures I haven't even imagined yet.
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