It’s late morning, yesterday. I’m catching up on the morning papers, eyes growing heavy…I doze off. What’s better than a late morning nap on a long weekend…in an absolutely silent house.
45 minutes later, my sleep is broken with wet kisses. The puppies are back from their walk with Susan. Sully settles himself on my chest, drops his head and sleeps. Wally watches from the caboose position, not sure what to make of his Brother on his Dad’s chest in his rightful spot.
I watch both of them, and think of the movie Cavalry, loved it btw. Father James shows more grief for the death of his dog than for humans subject to abuse he has witnessed. The punchline of the movie, injects a pause into the routine of the long weekend.
The next thought, and what a leap it was — to this day, Memorial Day — where my wiring somehow, some way connected this sacred day, to those humans that reached out to Yiyun Li after her second son committed suicide. She spoke of the clichés: “I know how you feel.” “It will get easier.” “This too will pass.” Some were certainly most well intentioned. Many, however, were clueless at the level of despair and loss, and the abyss that Li finds herself as her new lifelong habitat. “Life is stubborn. So am I. I have conceded to make this abyss my habitat, every single day, for the rest of my life. But I shall live in this abyss only on my terms.”
I look back at the dogs, both resting now, and their unconditional love, and I flutter back to Yiyun Li.
“There is a gracefulness, when people know what it means to do things that work. A few days after James’s death, my husband and I met Christiane for lunch, and later went to tea at Bonnie’s house. Do things that work meant that we knew they were precisely the people who had the clarity to meet us where we were: they were not there to console us or to fix our problem; only, to spend a moment with us.”
I can’t comprehend the courage that the men and women who died in their Service for this country. Or, the courage of those who Serve our country today. Nor, could I begin to understand the loss that families of the fallen live with every day.
No. I have no consoling words.
I sit. I sit quietly, in their honor, in this moment, and on this day, thinking of their ultimate sacrifice, and my gratitude.
