Over the past week, I've learned that, surprisingly, I can live without you. It's a painful thing to type and a painful thing to feel. When you walked this earth as my counterpart, as my soul mate in the flesh, I did not think that I would be able to survive without you. I thought that if you left, I would crumple into a pile of dirt. Gone. Though I feel like a puddle, when I look in the mirror, my reflection looks back at me. I am still here. I am the same. I don't know how it is possible, but it is so.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
Showing posts with label soul mate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soul mate. Show all posts
Obituary
Today I read your obituary in the newspaper.
I can't imagine the difficulty it took for your parents to sit down and write their only son's obituary. Their handsome and healthy son, who was just 34 years old. The son who they were planning on celebrating the thirty fifth birthday of just five days later. The son who they'd never seen so happy. The son who they were expecting a call from any day with the joyful news of engagement, not their worst nightmare, a three a.m. call from the emergency room announcing his death. And yet, that is now the reality, the reality that we are all facing every day in new ways.
Just when it feels like the news of your death has sunk in, a new discovery proves that it has not. The pain is so raw.
I remember when I wrote my eulogy for you. It was just three days after your death. I had barely slept. I was traumatized by being witness to my worst nightmare. I hadn't eaten anything and what I'd tried to eat, I'd thrown up. I was in shock. I was being held on my feet only by the sturdy arms of friends and family. I was on the brink with every breath.
I had my father go out and buy me a new notebook. I simply requested a "nice" one. I couldn't open a computer to write, that seemed too official, like work. And if I had used a computer, I knew I would be stimulated by all of the other material on the screen, like the show I had been watching just minutes before on that night you seized. So, armed with my notebook, I sat down on our bed and began to write.
As I wrote, I felt as though my hand wasn't doing the writing. I felt like I was being channeled by something larger. Maybe it was simply adrenaline. Maybe it was your help. But just like your incredible family and the obituary, I made it through. I strung sentences together and wrote down everything I needed to say out loud to a crowd of witnesses. I wrote the vows that I'd intended to write to you on our wedding day. As I wrote, it became more real. My new notebook wrinkled with dried tears. Words on paper seemed to make your death more concrete.
I heard the obituary had been printed today. I had already read the text before press with your sister Berkley. We had both cried and talked about how beautiful it was. We had chosen the final photo to be used. But today, when I asked my parents to bring me a copy of the newspaper, it became real all over again.
I saw my mom's hesitation as she handed the obituary to me, a single page already separated from the rest of the issue. I reached for the paper with an outstretched hand, fingers trembling. I felt it between the pads of my fingers, grey and thin. It is the same newspaper I read the comics in as a young child. Peanuts made me smile with anthropomorphic pets and witty punchlines every Sunday morning. The same newspaper that I saw a picture of myself in when I was eleven and in the Nutcracker. I had red cheeks, a heart painted on my lips, toe shoes on my feet, and the tight fitting red and gold trim jacket of a solider. The same paper that I would look up movie times in when scheduling teenage co-ed excursions with a boy I might hold hands with. The same newspaper I would help my grandma clip coupons from. The same newspaper that featured the firm I was at when I worked with the Olympics as a young professional. The same newspaper I dreamt would someday house our marriage announcement. The newspaper had arrived every morning to our doorstep without fail for the past thirty years. My dad would go fetch it in his robe while the current family dog would run out alongside him and take her morning pee in the front yard. But today's newspaper was different. Today, in the obituaries, alongside nine strangers who all looked so old, was you – my Ted – looking so handsome, so young, and so ready to take on the world.
Obituary can be found here.
I can't imagine the difficulty it took for your parents to sit down and write their only son's obituary. Their handsome and healthy son, who was just 34 years old. The son who they were planning on celebrating the thirty fifth birthday of just five days later. The son who they'd never seen so happy. The son who they were expecting a call from any day with the joyful news of engagement, not their worst nightmare, a three a.m. call from the emergency room announcing his death. And yet, that is now the reality, the reality that we are all facing every day in new ways.
Just when it feels like the news of your death has sunk in, a new discovery proves that it has not. The pain is so raw.
I remember when I wrote my eulogy for you. It was just three days after your death. I had barely slept. I was traumatized by being witness to my worst nightmare. I hadn't eaten anything and what I'd tried to eat, I'd thrown up. I was in shock. I was being held on my feet only by the sturdy arms of friends and family. I was on the brink with every breath.
I had my father go out and buy me a new notebook. I simply requested a "nice" one. I couldn't open a computer to write, that seemed too official, like work. And if I had used a computer, I knew I would be stimulated by all of the other material on the screen, like the show I had been watching just minutes before on that night you seized. So, armed with my notebook, I sat down on our bed and began to write.
As I wrote, I felt as though my hand wasn't doing the writing. I felt like I was being channeled by something larger. Maybe it was simply adrenaline. Maybe it was your help. But just like your incredible family and the obituary, I made it through. I strung sentences together and wrote down everything I needed to say out loud to a crowd of witnesses. I wrote the vows that I'd intended to write to you on our wedding day. As I wrote, it became more real. My new notebook wrinkled with dried tears. Words on paper seemed to make your death more concrete.
I heard the obituary had been printed today. I had already read the text before press with your sister Berkley. We had both cried and talked about how beautiful it was. We had chosen the final photo to be used. But today, when I asked my parents to bring me a copy of the newspaper, it became real all over again.
I saw my mom's hesitation as she handed the obituary to me, a single page already separated from the rest of the issue. I reached for the paper with an outstretched hand, fingers trembling. I felt it between the pads of my fingers, grey and thin. It is the same newspaper I read the comics in as a young child. Peanuts made me smile with anthropomorphic pets and witty punchlines every Sunday morning. The same newspaper that I saw a picture of myself in when I was eleven and in the Nutcracker. I had red cheeks, a heart painted on my lips, toe shoes on my feet, and the tight fitting red and gold trim jacket of a solider. The same paper that I would look up movie times in when scheduling teenage co-ed excursions with a boy I might hold hands with. The same newspaper I would help my grandma clip coupons from. The same newspaper that featured the firm I was at when I worked with the Olympics as a young professional. The same newspaper I dreamt would someday house our marriage announcement. The newspaper had arrived every morning to our doorstep without fail for the past thirty years. My dad would go fetch it in his robe while the current family dog would run out alongside him and take her morning pee in the front yard. But today's newspaper was different. Today, in the obituaries, alongside nine strangers who all looked so old, was you – my Ted – looking so handsome, so young, and so ready to take on the world.
Obituary can be found here.
Devotion
Over the past month my inbox, phone, and ears have been flooded with messages, songs, memories, and compassion. I can't tune out the support if I tried. I always thought you had so many friends, such a network of love, my Ted – more friends than I could ever imagine. But through this harrowing circumstance, I now see that I was blind to the love that I also have.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
Love Song
You told me you were going to write a song about me one day. I always wanted to be the subject of your verse. I tried to imagine what the lyrics would be; you spoke so eloquently so I had no doubt it would paint a picture of a woman more lovely than I am, and show the world how pure our love is. I used to joke that I'd be your muse. An emotional track of bliss: the musical definition of a love song. I wish I could hear the song you were going to write someday. I wish I had it as a keepsake to enjoy over and over. That way I could hear your poetry forever, etched through lyrics, percussion, and cadence. My writing and my memories are my love song to you.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
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