Now:

An unsettled reality. Or a settled false one…
which in itself, does not fit within common sense’s parameters of “reality.”

When denial is the easiest option, the quickest one, the one that most efficiently pushes down the heaviness seeking to surface.

When accepting the truth is not a possibility.

When the words of truth you so dreaded before come out now with a slight laugh, with ease, accompanied by a happy anecdote of the past
told in a confidently optimistic,
and entirely deceptive,
tone.

When nothing is enough.

When normal schedules cannot be, so abnormal ones are created… consciously? Subconsciously?

When normality cues your mind’s repetition: He’s gone – It’s not real – He died– Nothing happened – Cry – Sleep – Get up – Sleep in – Move on – Grieve –

When normal habits and normal conversations mask the incredible instability that shakes the mind as it deals with the
uncertainty
of each day’s
progression.

When all options are now available, but normal parameters, devoid of meaning, are likely best.

When no one talks.

When happiness still seeps its way into the cracks of each day, holding the minutes and hours and tasks together.
When the resiliency of the human spirit holds depression’s full-blown attack at bay, though in an uncomfortably imperfect way.

When complacency can only be
wrong.

When What do you want to do? or What should we do? results in the truest expression of “I don’t know” ever told.

When talking is not possible…
because nothing yet has happened and nothing yet is real and no one yet has died and everyone will once again sit around the kitchen table
in the absolutely familiar tradition of
tea
and milk
and cookies.

I wrote this post just a couple weeks after my grandfather, Stanley Francis Cordes, passed away unexpectedly on a hill, hiking San Bruno Mountain: one of his favorite hobbies. One year later, the feelings of his loss are still incredibly real… and yet the “reality” of his passing seems an absolute fabrication.

I haven’t seen my grandpa in a year now, but I know I’ll see him at the next family gathering, or talk to him when we need advice on the next medical appointment, and I know he’ll be at my parents’ house every week for tea or sandwiches so that he can keep an eye on my mom and make sure we are all nursing her back to full health, so that he and my mom can be strong for one another.

And of course, I know I’ll find him on that corner of Powell and Geary, waiting for me, or I for him, to go to another play. We’ll probably eat at Lefty O’Doul’s again, then go see whatever show is on the program, because, as it turns out, that season after Granne passed wasn’t meant to be his last. His daughters and granddaughters filled in, kept the tradition going one more year….

One year later, I still can’t notice a piece of trash on the sidewalk, an interesting building worth exploring, or a motorcycle parking sign somewhere without thinking of him. I can’t help the thought of ‘We’ll talk to Grandpa’ cross my mind in an absolutely calming and reassuring way when tough medical issues come up. And the universe must have me the butt of some joke because I still can’t look at any white-haired old man in a hat without having an uncomfortable, too-familiar and yet too-foreign feeling arise in my gut.

I am beyond lucky to have had grandparents – both Granne and Grandpa – who provided me only with memories of love. I am beyond blessed to have been the recipient of that love. And if this… this momentarily unsettled reality is my only payment for that love, then I accept it with open arms.

I am beyond lucky to have the opportunity to continue building a life worthy of their love.