Grief stage one.

A short riff on grief.

There were frequent spats which exploded between us all on the annual family holidays that started after the first of seven grandchildren arrived.  Between the adults - myself, the brother-in-laws, my sisters, my mum and dad, but not between the cousins, who never, ever fought. My father had the most annoying habit of taking off after supper every evening, no doubt to avoid the frenetic bath n' bed time chores, the washing up, and the aforementioned spats, now I come to think about it. He drove all the way past the bay at Sandbanks, up a hill past the expensive and mostly empty holiday houses and over to much more down-to-earth Poole, where lesser mortals lived. Here he foraged in the giant supermarket for sausage rolls, smarty crispy cakes and endless supplies of ham for the daily picnics which we were all sick of except for the grandchildren, who loved having exactly the same thing every day, day in, day out, year in, year out, as did he.

  Since he died, it seems absurd to moan with my sisters about my mother’s listless apathy now in the lunch department, her feeble calls from my kitchen table where she she sits, forlorn and still, for clarification on what to make the boys for lunch as I leave for work.  How we (not her, I see now), railed against my dad’s hyper-organisational skills, honed to a fine point over the years until his rallying cry every morning would be:

“What’s the plan for today?”

  All those years of fuming silently at being herded about without the slightest chance of arriving late anywhere - he had once turned all the clocks forwards an hour to make my mother get a move on, only to find now that he’s gone, I  miss it. Him. I state obvious facts - that he was the one who organised, and now that he’s gone no-one else does, because that is what mourning does.  It makes you state the obvious over and over again, in the hope that at some stage it will not just seem obvious but feel it too. Because then I might be able to move onwards, away, into my future, rather than be where I am now, slumped by his body, prodding it to get up, be annoying again, start organising us all, stop being so - absent. 

Reviews

[Kate Z.]

Keep writing. It helps. The pain gets.... "softer" I guess, less demanding. It's work, but its necessary, because time heals nothing on its own.

[Gee]

I am yet to suffer the pangs of grief. I have lost loved ones but have never really dwelt on their passing. I still recall good times, and bad, but am of the school of thought that we ain't here long enough to be moping around.
Hope your self exploration is as rude and fulfilling as it should be !!!!!

[Pip]

That was quick! Thanks Gee.

[Gee]

Blimey, you don't know how many times a woman has said that to be......my pleadure

[Gee]

Jesus, pleasure...