My heart is still beating. I am surprised. It is nearing five months and my heart is still thumping away in my chest. Sometimes it pounds so hard I am sure it is trying to break out. Sometimes it barely taps out the rhythm of life–quietly–so quietly I think it might stop altogether.
There is nothing wrong with me except that Lane is gone and I cannot seem to find myself without him.
We have a concert series here on the Ranch. I have worked on the committee for more than 20 years. I have wonderful friends from the committee, from the neighborhood, from the mens’ beer and softball society. There is always a week’s supply of hugs and kisses…and I am still alone. The music is a summer tradition. I go to the concerts, I pack the picnic supper for one, and I look for his face in the crowd. Most often I leave early because it hurts to look for what is never there.
I try not to dwell on the aloneness. I try to remember the love. But even remembering the love reminds me that there is not a soul in the world today who knows me as well or really ever wanted to.
Lane’s brother is ill. Yes, cancer. His stomach will be history this time next week. Lane died on February 20th. Bob’s surgery is July 20th. It isn’t nice that mom has so many unpleasant 20s so close together. I would try to comfort her, but I remind her Lane is dead and she doesn’t like to be reminded. She is 86. She can grieve or not however she wishes. I think we could have given comfort to each other but since she didn’t want to find out, we go through whatever these steps are 20 miles apart. I wonder if she feels alone. I wonder if she wishes her heart to slow and stop or if she wonders that it beats at all.
I was surprised that mom would not participate in the memorial celebration that had rock and roll ringing from the hills and 300 people eating street tacos and drinking beer to the memory of her son. I was even more surprised that she declined attending the inurnment at the National Cemetary–family only. She acts as if he is being obstinant in not coming to visit her. Or perhaps, I am keeping him away.
It is the end of another day. The hour approaches when all working women must tuck themselves in or risk very bleary eyes in the morning. The hardest time of the day is the half hour between the shower, sleeping pill, and the 11:00 news and the blessed relief of sleep. Sleep would be more blessed if Lane even came into my dreams but I cannot even find him there.
