Sometimes I forget about writing…that it’s something I can come to for solace, for an attempt at making sense of things, for the unadulterated enjoyment of words and turns of phrase. It’s not that I no longer have any interest…I just forget. I am too busy writing for classes, or scurrying about to meetings or errands before rushing to school to get the kids.
But I get to do these things. All of these things. What an incredible, amazing privilege it is to live this wild life of mine.
Here’s something that doesn’t make sense: young people who don’t get to do this. People who get sick, or succumb to despair, or by some stupid accident of metal and glass and fragile flesh don’t get to run around after their kids. Who don’t get to get into silly disagreements with their spouse, or get weary of doing all those damn dishes all the time, or become overwhelmed by a crowd at Costco.
People dying young is just incredibly sad, and it sucks. But I get so much sadder when it’s someone who has little kids because I know that just a few days ago, our lives were likely remarkably similar. They were wiping up spills and doling out goodnight kisses. And now they aren’t. It makes no sense, and it’s painful and stupid and I hate it.
I’ve been to too many funerals for someone my age, especially as many of them were for peers. In the past, I eventually came to a place of renewed passion for living: the message I got from the death of a friend was that I had no time to waste myself, and to hurry and get to the sweet business of life. And maybe I will get there soon enough, because it is a worthwhile reminder to stop washing all the damn dishes and sit on the back stoop with a beer and swim in the laughter of one’s children.
But for now I am mad, and frustrated, and hurt for two motherless babies and a partner-less partner. Words and songs and sun bring scant solace, and I think I need to remember that sometimes sitting in the pain is a useful part of remembering that I am alive.