The scariest time in the writing process is pulling the trigger and putting your work out there. I don't feel that with this one. It was never intended for public consumption. I wrote it for myself originally, in an attempt to make sense of my feelings after a family member passed. It was unexpected, sudden, and her choice. We don't use the s-word anymore.
This work is copyrighted July 2012, by Mike Jordan. It may be freely reprinted, republished and redistributed, so long as it is done so in it's entirety and as the original publication (this page) and author (Mike Jordan) are cited.
Hopefully someone considering actions similar to my aunt's will read it and change their mind.
Wreckage
The first time I saw my grandfather shed a tear was at my grandmother’s funeral. I had held it together until then. Granny wasn’t in pain anymore. She was ready to go. She was at peace and I could accept that. But when Grandpa put his hand on that coffin and let out that one quiet sigh, it was too much. His pain rocked me to the core. The lump rose in my throat and tears ran down my face.
My grandfather is a strong man and he raised strong children. My father, my uncles and my aunt, I can only hope I inherited a fraction of it. Recently that strength was tested again. My aunt, who wasn’t always my aunt, passed unexpectedly at her own choice.
I wouldn’t call us particularly close. That’s my fault not hers. Truth is; I’m not particularly close to anyone. This isn’t some stupid macho chest-thumping, “I don’t need anyone!” bullshit. It’s the act of a coward; I instinctively shy away from close personal connections, because of the fear that losing those people would utterly destroy me.
When I say she wasn’t always my aunt, I mean when I first met Ardie as a boy, she was my uncle’s girlfriend, then my uncle’s fiancé. The day before my tenth birthday, she became my uncle’s wife. My aunt.
I remember my Dad remarking that his baby brother had “done good.” I remember my mother handing me a dollar bill and putting me in line for the dollar dance at the reception. I remember seeing how happy they were. I remember the first unguarded smile I’d ever seen Craig display.
I’ve always admired him, my Dad’s baby brother, my Uncle Craig. I respect his quiet wisdom, displaying his strength through intelligence and his stoic reserve. His desire to do what is right, not what is easy. With two bombastic older brothers, it’s only natural that he became the observer in the family. I’ve never seen him look as lost as I have these past days.
I remember how Ardie doted on us, the children, at those family gatherings, how happy she seemed with the barely controlled chaos generated by a group of hard-headed, hyperactive cousins all amped up on sugar from Granny’s pumpkin pie and red velvet cake.
I remember how complete she and Craig seemed when Ben, my baby cousin, joined us. Today, my baby cousin shows himself a man to be respected, and very much a Jordan. Back straight, shoulders squared, under all that weight, to the untrained eye, perfectly together.
His pain only shows through his eyes.He tells me he doesn't want to seem callous, but he doesn't know how to handle all this, how it doesn’t seem real. I tell him anyone that knows how to handle something like this isn't human at all. I tell him anger is normal, because I feel it too. It doesn't mean he loves his mother any less.
My uncle, eyes red and heavy, tells me if I’d told him this time last week that he would be here, burying his wife, he would have called me crazy. Me, the writer, the wordsmith, can’t find words. I take his hand and hug him, gently. Too much pressure would make it too real. I tell him how sorry I am. He asks after my nephew, another child he and Ardie doted upon. I tell him my sister has taken him home. He’s too young and rambunctious to understand and be properly respectful.
I can’t bring myself to look upon the casket for more than a passing glance. I know why: because part of me knows it isn’t Ardie lying there, and part of me knows it is.
The next day, before mass at a little church I’ve never been to before, I pull Ben aside ask him how he’s doing, then instantly feel like an idiot. After that I don’t talk much. I give him a cigarette and let him vent. Until yesterday, I didn’t even know he smoked. He tells me how selfish he felt for not realizing how hard his mother’s death hit his girlfriend, how he did know how they often they talked, emailed, how much they cared for each other. He seems calm, hard to read, very careful with his emotions. Ben shows himself to be much wiser than I was at that age. The idle conversation begins to die off, as the priest enters. It’s time. I whisper to Ben as he makes his way forward to stand beside his father, “She’s not in there, you know.”
I don’t even know if he heard me. As a non-practicing Catholic, I’m well versed in the motions, and I go through them. I don’t pray. I’ve got nothing nice to say to God, so I take Granny’s advice and say nothing at all. I hold it together; Ben and Craig deserve that much. I try not to show I’m wishing to get up, walk out, go home, load a shotgun and go hunting the doctor that prescribed all those meds.
Once again, Grandpa makes it real. I’d taken a seat beside Grandpa as we walked in, I’ll never be half the man he is, but I know he has more days behind than ahead. I believe myself to be the only one here not preoccupied with his own pain, so I keep a close eye on Grandpa, if he should stumble. I think back to the words I spat at my own father during his own troubles: That old man has been through enough. Who knows how many friends he has lost, and he’s already had to bury one of his children and his wife. You make him bury you, and I will never forgive you. Suddenly, I’m very angry with Ardie, at the pain she has caused mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grandpa wipe a tear away, behind his glasses, as he reaches forward and places a hand on his baby boy’s shoulder. Craig puts his arms around Ben, an attempt to give, or find comfort, I do not know. It doesn’t seem to help. I realize quickly that anger is pointless, and using it fuel my innate desire to fix something would be counterproductive. The lump is rising in my throat again. I try to fight it, but that too, proves pointless.
Graveside is no better. I see the absolute desolation in Craig’s face. I can’t fathom his pain, but it hurts me, shaking me to the core. I want him to let it out, at the same time I fear it. I see Ben. Very much a Jordan, but I see his mother’s nature there as well. He gaze is turned inward, finding comfort in memories. I hope he finds balance, life will never be the same, but I hope, and now I pray that he will find normal again.
I look around at Ardie’s family, that which she was born into and the one she chose, all dressed in fine clothes that usually reserved for special occasions and wish they were still in garment bags in the back of the closet. I look around and I see wreckage. So we stand, backs straight through force of will, because the spirit is gone.
The one person that could make it okay with a sarcastic joke and a wry grin, so much like Granny could, is lost to us.
And that’s why it hurts.
---Mike Jordan, 2012
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