I truly envy those who can simply sit and think about absolutely nothing. Me? Seems all I do is think. And think. And think.
The past few days have been some of the most physically exhausting and emotionally taxing for me in recent memory. It began just a few moments after I arrived home from work on Tuesday evening and has continued through to tonight, a thousand wants and hurts and discontented huffs resulting in a thrum of upset, an undercurrent of some sort of emotional something that I can't even sort out at this point.
Tuesday night to late Sunday evening... that's five days. I can hardly begin to believe it's been that long. In that time, I've sat on airplanes and in cars, three airports and two rest stops, traversing almost four thousand miles of airspace and highway, having no real concept of how fast it was whizzing by.
Time. How strange that it seems to be this unending resource that will always be replenished. I feel old sometimes, and of course, those who are older than I am laugh at my paranoia, but I suppose beneath my fussing over the gray hairs that keep creeping in and the sore joints that get stiff and creaky if I leave them in one position for too long, I always thought I'd stop aging at some point and just be "old" forever. But yesterday, seated among mourners in a somber sea of black, staring at the still form of someone who'd been ill for quite some time, but who I also figured would never really die, I was hit with the reality and the finality of it. Yes, there is comfort for those who believe in life after this, but ultimately, whatever private hope any of us held was eclipsed by the knowledge, and the acknowledgment, that for one person, today was the end of time.
No more Christmases, no more summer cookouts with singing and hammocks and silly games. No more weekend visits sprinkled with stories of my grandparents who I never really knew. And no more of the disagreements that always seemed to crop up in this tumultuous clan. Realistically, it was bound to happen. I've never seen the family crest, but if I could design it, I'd probably (forgive me) sneak a golden mule between the diamonds or crosses or whatever other symbols heraldry is usually adorned with. I'll be the first to admit that we are a strong-willed and stubborn folk. It's really inevitable that we end up butting heads.
It wasn't all tears and sadness. I can't deny that there was an exhilaration in my veins when the tires first hit the tarmac at Logan, that I didn't feel a big jolt of happy when my big brother wrapped me in a bear hug as soon as I came out of the gate, or a childlike thrill gazing around at the neighborhood where I grew up on the drive back. We stopped for lunch at the little Greek restaurant we always used to go to on Friday nights, and Mom stopped at Mann's for the one thing I'd requested while we were in the area: fresh-picked apples. (We don't have apple orchards in Florida, and if you've never eaten an apple fresh off the tree, you're missing out.) Even at the services, I felt happy through the hurt that permeated the room, seeing aunts and uncles I hadn't seen in years, cousins that had somehow grown up when I wasn't looking, and friends I hadn't realized how much I'd missed until I saw them again. And Dad, who I don't call as much as I should and who I don't see nearly often enough. I was there for my own grief, but a very large part of the reason I'd come all this way was to be a shoulder for him, to try to buffer the same pain I saw him go through eleven years ago. Not wild horses, nor exhorbitant emergency airfares, nor pelting rain or frizzy hair or the ever-looming constraint of time, could have kept me away.
But we did sit and mourn and cry and grieve, because while life is a thing to celebrate, the end of it is, for the living, always a source of pain. And while it feels good to laugh and smile through the tears, the tears too, in their own way, are also a good thing. It's proof that what we have lost was really something worthwhile. I thought about so many things as I sat listening to the prayers and the shared memories and the musical selections. I glanced around at the people I'd never known who were here because she meant something to them. I saw an empty chair and felt a twinge of anger for someone who should have been there, and wasn't. I recalled vivid sights and sounds and scents that I'd never again experience because she was no longer there. I felt comfort knowing that her struggle was over, and a faith I'd thought was long dead, a certainty that she was with her parents and her brother. And I had a keen awareness of time. Perhaps it was a bit morbid, but I gazed at the faces of those gathered and thought about how many days any of us has left. Each and every last one of us will have our turn in that box. And it's going to happen sooner than we think.
That thought, all by itself, was sobering. And of course, it got me to thinking about what I've been wasting, how I'd been putting off things I want to do with my life, because I figured I'd always have time. But the problem I had two years ago has not resolved itself, and likely never will. There's no way to win on all counts, so I've got to find an arrangement I can live with.
After less than 48 hours in New England, I boarded a plane and left. It wasn't without a great deal of frustration. If there was any phrase I uttered more in the past few days than, "It's good to see you... I wish it weren't under these circumstances," it was, "I wish I had more time." There were friends and family I wanted so much to see, and it was maddeningly frustrating that I couldn't spend any time with them while I was there, when they were there within just a few miles' reach. A part of me briefly entertained trying to steal a few brief hours to see even one or two of them, but now that the dust is settling and the exhaustion is catching up with me, I can see what a poor choice that would have been. I'd already stretched myself so thin, I don't think I could have fit in much more. I attempt to console myself with the dangerous notion that so many of us take false comfort from: there'll be another time.
I've always hated Sundays. Funny, I didn't really get the chance to hate Sunday today. Despite how much I love and miss home, I was glad to be back in my space, my room, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight. I do wish I had a day to myself, to relax and unwind and take a breather. I didn't ask for it, though, and tomorrow, I'll face the alarm again. The second hand traces an unrelenting, unforgiving path around the face of the clock, each tick a measured reminder of how close tomorrow is. For tonight, for me, time has run out.
But all complaints aside, I can be grateful in knowing that for me, at least, there will be a tomorrow.
