When your foundation is shaken and nothing will ever be the same. When grief reaches in and stretches you, tears you up both inside and out, and all you can see is heartbreak. When you hurt for yourself and just as much for the rest of your family. When you see how frail and precious each person in your life is. When all you can write are fragments, bits and pieces of thought, strung together, half incoherent because all you can do is wail. When you shout NO, NO, NO! It can’t be true. But no matter what you do, what you pray, what you wish, the fact cannot be unheard. Forever, it will reside in the deepest parts of your soul and you will never be the same.
He’s my person. And now he’s gone. I can’t. I just can’t.
Never again. All of the small details that you can never do again. Never again call and talk to the person who has always been there for you, the person who has known you since you were growing inside a womb, the person who gets you and loves you unconditionally. Never again stay the night at his house and play games, Scrabble or bridge or the Broadway game he created, until late in the night, laughing so hard at nothing at all, and then wake up to the smell of UD’s cooking. Omelets, made to perfection and prepared specially for each person. Never again brainstorm life, writing, lesson plans, anything and everything. Never again take a photo of him. And the new camera, bought during spring break, will never snap a picture of Uncle David. Never again ask for his advice or give him a hug. Never again talk music and movies to the person who always knew what you meant, even if no one else understood.
I don’t even… I don’t know how to do this.
He was my person. And he was that person to so many of us.
Someday, maybe, all the tears, shakes, screams will be gone. For now, we are left with raw throats, puffy eyes, and so many questions. For now, we are in shock, numb.
Today, we planted a tree for Grandpa Crawford, lost last May, and one for Dad, lost in January. Tomorrow, or soon, we will plant a tree for Uncle David. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day or the next year, we will breathe again.
~Written in loving memory of Uncle David who was so much to so many.