lost & found

when you can't go home again

Since my father died, I have had a hard time leaving the house.

There I said it.

I visited him at The Club at Briarcliff Manor, so often over the years. It is about eleven winding miles from my house in Bedford. Because he lived with memory loss for many years, the feeling I have of connecting with him is not a familiar phone call, as those faded long ago, but our visits.

My car knows the way. My body too. And I am reminded over and over again, upon waking, that I can no longer visit. But damn, I want to. Over the month that has passed, I can transport myself in my mind’s eye to his room. The photos of us on the white washed pine bureau. The “I Love You More Than The Whole Wide World” artwork we gifted him that hung proudly over the bed. Two childhood works my brothers made him. A Cray-pas sketched work boot. A Picasso style self-portrait. The stacks of long sleeved shirts, short sleeved favorites from Dots Diner and those with Nantucket over-sand beach permits. The cool hoodies and joggers we added to the stash in recent years. The ones embroidered “Grampsy” and the ones that proudly displayed the colleges, teams and workplaces of his family. I tidied them on visits. Made me feel I had some control I supposed. Order in the unknown. The small dish of mini chocolates at the check-in desk. I’d always enjoy a red wrapped krispy Krackel on the way home. The view out the window of the Serenity Room. A slice of the city. The Hudson. Checking in to see which artwork he made in class. I long to hear his voice. Hold his hand. Share his mealtime.

I have been so moved by the “grief gifts” that have shown up. The check-ins that came days after telling me they felt they had known my Dad through my posts. Writings. The ones that said, “no need to reply” made me want to even more. One friend sent along a handmade potholder. She is healing and dealing with long covid and surprised me with one of her bests. She said crafting them has been keeping her busy. When I wrote to thank her, she said of this black and white beauty, that it is the first one she made that has no mistakes. She has no idea what a treasure it will remain. A gorgeous bouquet of flowers at the one month mark. Bagels days after he died. Fingerless gloves from my partner loss group. One says LOVE the other HOPE. Folks showed up. Not all that I expected—most of us who have experienced loss know this to be true. Many that I never expected. Most of us who have experienced a loss know this truth too! It reminds me, there is life after loss. Hope and love. Folks thinking of you when it is hard to think of yourself.

It’s also been hard to get to my yoga mat. It is my go-to medicine for life. And it just feels far.

Hard. Heavy. Different,

Work feels good. Which makes me glad.

A reason for being.

Writing feels less necessary lately. And I am sorry for not showing up here sooner, to let you know why. I showed up to a writing session with friend and mentor Elena Brower yesterday. Part of the magic of her Substack publication, Holding Nothing, are the once a month gatherings she crafts for paid subscribers. We were asked to write about something familiar.

In detail. For ten minutes.

I offer writing prompts as part of my work, but could not find my way to the page until then. Here is the piece.

Sometimes I notice all of the sights and signs of spring. But my car can drive to yoga up the street without thinking much. I back out of the drive. I know just how long I move into reverse before swinging away from the marshland across the street. I know the minutes it takes, barring no back ups at 8:20am. It is exactly four miles and always five to six minutes. No need to watch the clock.

A right out of Lake Avenue. The hardware store awakens. I see the lot filled with wheelbarrows. That tiny baby one, the perfect size for my three year old nephew. Truck Mexican restaurant on the right. New white picket fence. Noted.

I pass The Farms. The neighborhood where everyone in Bedford and surrounding towns goes to Trick-or-Treat. All of the sweet street names. I imagine them as my address. The house that still has the holiday lights and the giant skeleton. I wonder who lives there.

Two lights. The one that you can go right to Greenwich. The Fire station. The curve passed the church. All of the faded heads stones in the cemetery. Hallowed. Haunted? I wonder.

The historic white buildings that surround the town green.

I always think – one of each. The jail. The courthouse. Old fire house. Now coffee shop, home store. Pause at the crosswalk. Sweet shop, playhouse, the words Duchess and Clive Davis whir by.

Stone walls stacked. Shutters with evergreen cutouts. The curve and straight away. Go 40 from here. 30 through town.

I know there are three red mailboxes on the left before the turn. In my meditation they alert me to my arrival.

1, 2, 3… left. I have arrived.

I know my body longs to get back to that drive as it contemplates no longer making the familiar and frequent one to visit Dad. When you can’t go home again, and want to so deeply you must find a new way foward. This grief is both new and old. Rudderless and untethered.

1, 2, 3….I have arrived. Again at the crossroads of grief. This time learning to walk in a world where neither of my parents is alive. The crossroad of the before and after that takes a long while to sink in.

If you got this far, please let me know you are here and reading. Click on the heart or comment. If you have ever considered an upgrade, know that it supports a scholarship to my grief support circles and is hugely helpful to those who need it.

Thank you for this anchor.

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NEXT WEEK:

I am thrilled to share this beautiful and important program with you.

So grateful you can attend Midlife Monologues on 3/12 in person OR virtually. Here is the link for tickets and here is the link for the 3/13 “after party” — our Story Sharing Circle where you can discover and share your own story.