Grave stones, Anniversaries, Talking to Myself

The lilacs smell amazing and look even more beautiful against the budding greenery in our backyard.  We have so many great birds, thanks to the loving guardianship of my husband. Lately we've had a pair of Brown Thrashers pop in and out; they have a beautiful song and they love to chatter.  Mornings and dusks are especially marvelous: the singing in our yard and around our neighborhood, the dampness of the air that seems to amplify the scents of lilac and thawing soil. I love this time of year, even on a day like today, cold for May, raining, with evening snow showers possible. It's a cuddly-sort of day, time for tea, sweatpants, movies, and memories.  I've spent a lot of this year thinking and being this way. A year of reflection and revelations.  And they keep on coming.

May 8th would have been my parents' 45th wedding anniversary. This is incomprehensible to me. On so many levels. I just saw the photograph of their newly-installed grave stone. Beloved Parents. Had they not both passed away, they'd still be married. My father might have been out of the country working, and my mother likely would have been drinking. Thing is, I know my parents loved each other.  Life got pretty dysfunctional for them, each with their burdens and worries and fears, but their fabric was woven by forty five years of daily strands, of living. Each year, as it rolled around, the tenor of their relationship changed, but I'd always sent cards and called, and since my mother's death, for the past three years I've called my father.  Now what? Godammit, more new territory. 

What will I do tomorrow? Were I in Connecticut, or even within driving distance, I'd be at their graves, sitting between them, surely feeling the granite of their memorial stone beneath my fingers, the etching of our family name, their individual names, and the dates commemorating their lives. I am sure I'd plant some lilies, transplanted from the yard-- some of my Nonni's tiger lilies that she brought to our house from her garden. I'd hear the birds, notice the tree my father chose my mother to be buried near. I would be numb with grief, in disbelief of the tangible reality underneath me.

I'm neither in Connecticut nor within driving distance. I have a photograph, sent by my friend Heidi, of my parents' gravestone. I had asked her to take a picture and send it to me, because I needed something as real as I could get. I stared at the picture this morning, numb. I wondered if florists delivered to cemeteries. I could not help the flood of ironies coursing through my head.

I made a date to walk with my friend this morning--in the mall because it was too cold and rainy.
After a while, we stopped for coffee and a bit of browsing.  While we looked at clothes, I realized I was talking to myself, a lot, commenting on the relative cuteness of a shirt or something. Deb looked at me, smiled, and I just blurted out "I talk to myself all the time. I've been alone so much that it's become a habit." While she didn't seem shocked by my behavior, I was shocked by a) my admission and b) the realization of how much time I really have spent alone this year. Alone in the physical world, and isolated on the island of my thoughts. Since my dad died, I've often surprised myself with such personal statements and clear revelations.  It's easy to spew epithets off the top of one's head, or cliches, or to slip into learned behavioral responses. Why, just a week ago, I admitted to a friend that I needed help with the cluttered hot mess that is my bedroom. Are these incidents induced by grief? Am I just losing my filter? My mind? What is happening to me? Every interaction reveals something new, as if I've no control over who I am. And that's *exactly* it.  I don't have to choreograph a version of me that makes sense to people, especially friends, or control interactions between us.  While unfamiliar, it's easier. I mean, easier-going. I feel awkward sometimes, but never drained, even when admitting how sad I am, or that I've been alone a lot, or that if I see one more Mother's Day commercial I may throw something.
Am I a walking, bleeding wound, a hot mess?

*she pauses, thinks*

No.
Well, yes.

I'm grieving still, but I think I'm growing, too. I wish I had a stronger sense that those who leave us watch over us still. I just don't know if it's true or if I should want it to be true. Grief books are divided on this--some say we should not place any faith in this notion, that it keeps us thinking in the past, prevents us from growing forward.  Other sources advise us to keep conscious spiritual contact with our lost ones, that our relationships with them continue to evolve.

So what will I do tomorrow, on my parents' 45th anniversary? Wake up, think of them. Dedicate my yoga practice to their memory, and thank them. Probably cry. And then hopefully move through the day more conscious, more grateful, without so much sadness.