When I was 24 or 25, I had to have eye surgery to fix a tear in my retina. The way the surgeon explained it to me, there was a slight tear, not unlike a tear in a piece of fabric. And, like a rip in a pair of jeans, the hole would just keep getting bigger unless he sutured off the ripped part. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but since I was young and had never had children, I didn’t realize that there are a whole lot of things more painful than that. [When I started writing that thought, I was thinking physical pain, but the fact is the emotional pain is also far greater once you have a kid, so, gee whiz, aren’t I subconsciously a better writer?]
I went to a memorial service for a friend today, and, as is my way at memorial services, I cried quite a bit. I laughed, too, of course because I only know people who would be so fabulous that speakers at their memorial services would tell outlandishly funny stories. Or maybe I only attend the memorial services of cool dead people. Boring ones? Meh.
I think about the hole her departure leaves in her soul mate. The hole within her two grown sons. The hole that is surely in her best friend of years and years and years. Her husband, is 60 and has been with her for nearly 40 years. Is there anything that can stop it from growing bigger? A gregarious man, just like his wife, he is, and I’m sure he has so many deep friendships and bonds with friends and families alike, his sons included. But that hole within, what’s to become of that?
I think he’s a believer in the afterlife, so perhaps he hangs his hat on that. Here’s hoping no doubt ever seeps within him.
I have no point, no closing, only musings. So maybe I’m not subconsciously such a better writer?
Or maybe I do have a closing. I’ve got a hole, too. I think we all do. And the more we connect with others, the more we entwine ourselves in the lives of others, the greater that hole becomes when they take their inevitable leave. But then there are others we let into our lives, people like that crazy-ass Dale who just died, and when they’re with us, they patch over old holes.
When we go, I imagine we look quite the worse for wear, all of us patchwork quilts. I’m glad we get to take parts of others with us. I’m glad for so many of my patches.