My daughter plays the flute in her fifth grade band and, this morning, they put on a holiday concert. Arriving early, I snagged a couple of seats near the front for snapping pictures and waited for my wife to join me.
“How are you, Steve?” one of the mom’s seated behind of me, asked.
“Fine,” I lied automatically. “How are you?”
“Getting ready for Christmas,” she said. “This is your busy time at work, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, flatly. I wasn’t up for small talk.
“Well, enjoy the concert.”
“You too.”
Watching as the children filed in and took their seats, I waved to my daughter and her face broke out in a big smile. She was very happy I was there but, truth be told, I’d’ve rather stayed in bed – but I’m a father that means trying to act like everything’s okay when it’s anything but. Fidgeting in my seat, the kids’ bright excited chatter seemed like an alien counterpoint to the screams still echoing in my ears.
My wife joined me, and the concert began. Watching as my daughter’s pursed lips coaxed sounds out of her instrument, I wondered how she was doing. It had been a rough twelve months for all of us. First the dog died, my father and now this. “Many great dears have been taken away,” I thought to myself. ‘What will become of you and me?” I was worried about my daughter. I was worried about my wife. I was worried about me.
A round of applause chided me away from my thoughts and I absently clapped along. I’d been in a fog all week, the simplest tasks seeming like a gargantuan hurdle, and that’s not good when you do the job I do. A volunteer who was with me when I had cancer and my father died told me, “I’ve never seen you like this.” But this was different; like life had been stripped of its illusory veneer and I was finally seeing the seething chaotic substance which truly lay beneath.
Last week a friend of mine killed himself. I won’t go into details other than to say I was on scene, dealt with the traumatized person who found him, and called the cops. That was a horrible night. He was such a good man. He didn’t deserve to go out that way. Now I see him everywhere I look. Just last night, I had a vision of him on my porch, beer in his hand and smiling his lopsided grin. They tell me that’s normal, but now everything seems off kilter, like when the doors won’t close right after an earthquake has shifted the foundations of your house.
Feeling reality was gossamer thin and could split open anytime, my brain and body now seemed to be moving slowly and with great care, lest I ruptured the thin membrane separating the familiar from the alien and terrible. Watching the children playing their hearts out, I was jealous of their innocence and joy, blissfully unaware that people can succumb alone in a darkened room to a pain so lonely, desperate and terrible. Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he knock on my door? But as one of his friend’s wrote on his memorial, it was shame he wasn’t as comfortable with us as we were around him. The worst part was telling my daughter a man she knew most of her life was gone. Even though we didn’t tell her how he died, she isn’t stupid. One day she’ll figure it out.
The other night, his mourning friends strung up Christmas lights around his house and set up a little memorial on his lawn with flowers, as if those sparkling bulbs could dispel the darkness of what happened there. Since he lived close to me, I see them every day, along with the cars in his driveway that seemed to know he’d never drive them again. Knowing his garbage was half full, I’d dragged the can to the curb for the trashman to take away. I didn’t look inside because I knew it contained the detritus of the last days of his life. It’s little things like that which set me off; the suit on a hanger inside his car, mail in the mailbox, and the light burning in his bedroom like nothing’s amiss. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was still there. Eventually, of course, after the dust settles and all the legal niceties have been observed, his house will be sold, the memory of his face will blur, and another family will move in. It will be strange to see new people there. For them, I hope more light falls on that house than shadow.
Watching my daughter play her flute, I thought about the circuitous route my life had taken and how, despite my selfishness and stupidity, it had lavished such great treasure at my feet. No matter the pain and sorrow I’d recently witnessed, I knew this concert was one of those small jewels that made life worth living. I also knew that the substance of hope lay in the knowledge that lovely moments like these would come again and again. How my friend lost that hope I will never understand. After his shattering death I’ve I found myself humbled. I know nothing.
After the concert ended, I beamed broadly, praised my daughter’s play, took the obligatory photos and shook the music teacher’s hand. Then I kissed my wife goodbye and went to work. Because my food pantry’s holiday programs were in full swing, I had to screw on a smile as I thanked donors bringing in toys for tots and food for the hungry, but I knew I was just going through the motions. My heart wasn’t in it and part of me wondered if it ever would be again – but I’ll buy my daughter presents, put up a tree, and sing carols because I’m a father who has to act like everything’s okay when it’s anything but.
Driving home after work, I stopped by my friend’s house and stood in front of the makeshift memorial on his lawn. As the holiday lights strung up by those left behind began to push back against the wintry shadows of the abdicating sun, I shivered. Too much loss this year. Too much sorrow. Too many great dears taken away. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I looked up at my friend’s bedroom and sighed. My favorite memory of him will always be the smile on his face when he carried three neighborhood children effortlessly in his strong arms while they shouted with glee. That was a lovely moment. For my friend, those moments are gone but, as I stood in the cold, I knew my salvation lay in the hope that more of them would come. Bowing my head, I said a silent prayer for his loved ones, those for whom the holidays would never be the same. Then, seized with sorrow, I muttered, “So, this is Christmas.”
Goodbye my friend.
