This has been a year of taking inventory. I count three boxes full of ashes, light and insubstantial, scorched earth where once there was water and weight.
I can hold my bodybuilding father with a single hand, my mother too, though I wrap both arms around them for good measure. I place them side by side and stare at their oaken reflection in a mirror before my gaze turns to the rest of their once-upon-a-time.
I count empty beds, empty chairs, empty shirts and shoes.
I see the Cubs jersey he wore when my big brother was in little league. I see the chess set he made by hand. I see cheap winter boots, still muddy from the last time he wore them.
I see her hutch full of mementos and tea cups: a collection carefully curated over the course of a lifetime. I see an old cabinet covered in chipped paint that she never got to restore. I see family photos posted alongside grandchildren’s artwork (treasured as if it belonged in a museum).
I see the antique trunks they refurbished together.
I see the old dictionary he purchased when he was a student, the pages at once crisp and worn following decades of careful use.
I see the binoculars that accompanied him on trips to his tree stand, where he would watch (but never shoot) deer — the same binoculars she would later use to spy on a family of cardinals that moved into her backyard.
I see the lists I made when I thought lists might somehow save her.
I see dark where there was once light. Impressions where there was once shape.
I hear the ringing in my ears where there was once the shuffle of tired feet.
This has been a year of deprogramming. Of stuttering past the dozens of Pavlovian instincts that marked my day.
Of taking photos and sending them to no one.
Of sitting down for lunch and reaching needlessly for my phone.
Of hearing a pun and clenching my jaw.
Of seeing a black shadow and waiting for it to move.
It has been a year of distance. Of grandparents disappearing into the dark corners of nursing homes.
Of cancelled play dates and the rise of Zoom.
Of pacing from one white wall to the next and dreaming of life beyond them.
Of relationships strained by politics and politics magnified by social media.
Of six foot distances extrapolated by an infinitude of months.
It has been a year without distraction. A year without movies, without theater, without concerts.
A year without relief. A year where the agony of loss upon loss upon loss has been compounded by the total and absolute lack of everything and everyone.
A year where nerve damage climbed onto grief’s back and clawed its way out, leaving a trail of scars in its wake.
This is our broken year. I pick up the pieces and swallow them whole, dust and decay where once there were stars.
