Grief is the persistent deception that one day you will be okay.
It was an unreasonably normal day. I was hanging over a rail near a glass wall, trying to scramble for a few bars of signal when my mom told me my dad was dead.
I vaguely remember saying, “no” over and over until it turned into a scream. Somehow, I ended up on the floor. Labcoats ran towards me, held me up. Someone got Benton. My tears washed out my contacts and everything in me turned off. Benton took me home. My family immediately drove off to North Carolina where my dad’s body waited for us to claim him.
I didn’t say anything or could hear anyone for the entire ride. I would cry until I fell into an exhausted sleep—only to wake, remember, and fall apart again. Sometimes I stared out at the window, furious at the beautiful day.
We needed to identify the body.
My family argued about who needed to go. They wanted to spare my mom, brother, and me. My mom was fiercely adamant about going. She wanted to go alone because she wanted to protect my brother and me. My brother refused to let my mother go alone. I think everyone must have looked at me at some point. I don’t think I had spoken at all since I first heard. My dad was going to be the first dead body I’d ever seen. My heart wavered. Could I do it? Was it something I could live with if I didn’t do it? I had to. I had to. As I linked hands with my mom and brother, I thought, “This will be hard, but I’ll see him—I’ll see him, and I’ll know. I’ll know he’s gone. I’ll know. I’ll know. These pains and questions will have an answer.”
Bodybags are $25. I learned that later when the bill came. They peeled the bag back, and there he was.
Dead people don’t look dead. As I stood there staring at him, the words “are you sure?” clamored to get free of my mouth. God, I had seen him sleeping like that so many times. My eyes magnetized to his hands. They looked painfully stiff, frozen in an awkward clawing motion. Are you sure? God, something traitorously like hope made me shake. This is some kind of a mistake. Someone got it wrong. My dad—he’s just sleeping. Look. Really look. Are you sure? Then my mom and brother started to cry. I began to walk towards him. I reached out my hand. Are you sure? Someone had to check for God’s sake. His hands look like they hurt in that position. I wavered and took my hand back. We were swept out of the room. They covered him up. Are you sure? That was the last time I ever saw my dad.
I picked out some coffin. I picked out some urn. My mom said it was very nice. Boxes and flowers. Everything happened fast, but we didn’t live here. There was no time for anything. So I picked out some pointless flowers and boxes as if my actions had any meaning.
I felt cheated at the morgue. Closure had eluded me. But it was obviously because I didn’t properly prepare myself. Death had duped and dazed me, sweeping away my goodbye and acceptance with doubt and confusion. The funeral. Open casket. I could have my final words then. I would see him. Know he’s gone. I’ll know. I’ll know. And somehow, things would be better. Somehow it would mean something. I picked out a solid, austere looking wooden box as his urn. The metal and marble urns seemed so much more morbid and pretentious. My dad was a man that lifted rocks in my grandfather’s garden to scoop up the juicy earthworms for us to fish with. He was an earthy and strong man. So I chose a simple but sturdy looking box. I thought he would rest comfortably in that. If he could, I think he would have nodded and smiled—a hearty smile with missing teeth— give me a thumbs up, and say, “Good.”
I smoked borrowed cigarettes from my uncles as we waited for the body to be ready. I smoked behind the van, hoping no one would talk to me.
“He was a good man.” “He’s in a better place.” “He spoke of you so often.”
I smiled and nodded, wishing violently that everyone would just shut the fuck up. “I’m sorry” is such a fucking stupid sentiment. But nothing got my blood boiling more than: “His suffering is over. He’s in a better place.” It took everything I had not to yell and throw a punch every time those words met my ears. He’s dead. He’s gone. There is no better place! There’s nothing left. Nothing is left of the man that loved and raised me. Keep your pitiful wishes and delusions about his spirit the fuck away from me.They mean nothing. Gone is gone. There’s nothing left.
I paced outside the room where his body was being shown. My dad was waiting and my goodbye was on my lips.I stepped up to the coffin, and—he wasn’t there. Some grotesque dolled mannequin laid where he should have been. Dressed in the most expensive suit he would ever wear, hair dyed, looking absolutely nothing like the man I had known. Never once in his entire life had he ever looked like that. Even when he dressed up, he wore a ill-fitting tweed suit from Goodwill with grayed, mussed hair. What the fuck did these people do to my father? My goodbye died on my lips. I followed directions. Kneeling and bowing, chanting and praying. All the while, I wondered if they were sure they put my father in that coffin. I watched as they shoved a strange doll that was suppose to be my dad into an incinerator.
The crematorium is not like the dry cleaners. We were told we could not have him by the end of the day. Converting a body to ash takes more time. We didn’t live here. We needed to go home. Eventually we settled on picking him up the next morning.
I had to sign for him, and they handed me the box. The familiar, simple, earthy box. I took it with both hands. The weight and the heat surprised me. The warmth wasn’t a gentle residue heat; the heat dug into my skin. The weight of the box was unlike anything I had ever known. I sat in the backseat, alone and staring out the window, refusing to let anyone else carry it. This burden was mine. This gesture would mean something. If I forced myself to hold the box, if I endured the burden, I’ll know.
We couldn’t take him home. The monks told us his ghost would follow us. He wouldn’t be able to rest. Everyone scrambled to find a temple so late for my dad. A suitable place with respectable monks that could care for my father’s spirit. I was exhausted and spiritually empty, but it all seemed really important to rest of my family.
I held—clung—onto his urn, felt the heat slowly dissipate over the miles and waited. I waited to feel something—anything—like closure. All I could feel was the heaviness of the box. I thought we might drive around all night because we couldn’t take him home. My aunt and my mom called and called on their cell phones, searching desperately for my father’s final resting place. The box was sealed shut and had long since lost its unnerving warmth. It was so ordinary and inconspicuous now. The thought that my Dad’s box would stand out as strange among the ornate and conventional declarations of grief worried me.
A call came through, and we found a temple.
The temple looked like a house. Just a house with an exceptionally long driveway. I carried my father past the threshold littered with shoes. This has to be it. After this, everything is over. Everything will be done. Once my father has his place in the temple, once I placed this heavy box down, I’ll know. I’ll know.
We placed him in a cabinet. Put his picture on a wall with a sea of faces swimming with sons, fathers, and grandfathers. I kneeled on the cold tile floor. We prayed and gave money. I lit incense and tried to send my thoughts to him. It was over, and all I felt was empty.
I stared at his picture. I didn’t know anything.
Finding Impetus 