I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
Showing posts with label diamond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diamond. Show all posts
Ritual
As I write this morning, I'm sitting out on our deck. I can hear a woodpecker pecking at a tree. I wonder if it's the same bird that just a few weeks ago was hammering at our stucco as we sat in this same spot, enjoying the Colorado morning. You pelted the bird with one of the buckeyes your mom had sent from autumn Ohio. It flew off and then landed again, continuing to peck on another side of the house. We sat, in silence. You, staring into nature and sipping your tea. Me, checking social media, emailing with my co-workers, and drinking my daily half cup of coffee. "I wish there was a coffee cup that stayed warm so that my coffee wouldn't get cold by the time I'm halfway done," I'd say. "Maybe it's a sign you only need a half cup, you seem pretty awake already!" you'd joke. You, peaceful. Me, frantic, some minor work stress would have me yammering already.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
Breath by breath
Never before has the importance of being in the present felt so desperately important to me. I teach the importance of presence in my yoga classes; but until now, actually living from breath to breath, has never felt so intensely necessary. Focusing steadfastly on just.this.breath. has allowed over a week to pass since my soulmate tragically died in my arms. It's allowed me to wake up in the middle of the night, use the restroom, and go back to sleep without my mind darting to what was, and what was to be. It's allowed me to make it through a yoga class, completely dripping with grief and a sadness I never knew humanly possible. It's allowed me to eat, a bit, focusing on just chewing this one bite and keeping it down. It's allowed me to meditate on the Earth's beauty around me, the cycles still going on, even though my heart feels like its stopped. The sunrise is still beautiful, in fact, more beautiful than I ever noticed. The hair on my legs still grows, even though I don't understand why, and I wish it didn't. When I focus on each breath, my gaze moves more slowly. My eyes catch onto something they wouldn't have even noticed 10 days ago: a rainbow on the wall, a particularly fluffy cloud, a spider making its journey across the floor. There's a gentleness in my being where there used to be a rush. I want to know how the rainbow got there, where the cloud will go next, and help the spider complete his journey safely. Ted, you always told me to slow down. Now, you have it.
Yesterday, I couldn't do it. I was not breath to breath. I could hardly get out of bed. My mom dragged me out, literally dressing me as if I was a toddler who hadn't yet learned how. We went to the farmer's market to pick up a few things. We had only gone to the market together a couple times but immediately I was slapped by the memories. The same girl was at the cheese booth. Handing out samples to anxious customers. I was one of those customers just a few weeks ago – impatient to try the new goat's milk cheese and purchase it for our dinner guests. The man at the pickled-things booth. My mind raced to all of the jars of pickled calendula, sauerkraut, cucumbers, beets, garlic, olives in our fridge: your favorite snack or daily salad topper. We went into the food-court area. It was just a couple weeks ago we'd shared the Thai Salad. I was hungover, you ate most of it.
The most painful part yet: My eyes glanced at a man who was gingerly reaching across the table to his beloved's hand. He softly rubbed her hand and smiled peacefully at her across the table without words. No! That's how you grab my hand, Teddy. That's our look. That's our peace, and our love, and our gentleness. Fuck! Where are you!?
I'm seated, as far as possible from the smiling couple, trying to eat a crepe that's full of powerfully rich ingredients: smoked salmon, cream, capers, even bacon, I think. The richness disgusts me, it tastes too delectable for my grey insides. I pick at it then push it aside, realizing I'll need to rework my food choices. A little boy, playing with a cardboard sword leftover from his Halloween costume approaches my mother and I. He's slicing away at imaginary bad-guys in space just as I'm desperately looking for my man in the same invisible space. His eyes meet mine with that pure, all-knowing, yet completely innocent gaze of a child. I immediately weep. I think of the boy we were to create, Teddy. Half you, half me. "I hope they'll have your long legs!" I always joked. "Your good teeth and blonde hair," you would respond. "You have blonde hair too!" I would always argue. "My hair is BROWN!" you would say. We would laugh and you'd slide your hand across the picnic table, absentmindedly, to wrap your long, gentle fingers in mine. Both of us, silently and mischievously smiling as we imagined the brightness of the future we knew we deserved and had finally found. "Until then, we'll just practice, A LOT," we'd joke. Tears streamed down my face as the reality of this crushed future faced me through the innocent eyes of the boy with the sword.
Last Wednesday, your family proposed to me on your behalf, Teddy. Your mom, dad, sisters & brothers-in-law took me down to a little sitting area next to your Aunt Ginny's lake. They all held me and cried as your mom opened a ring-box, containing the most breath-taking diamond on Earth, and asked for my hand for you, and more importantly, for us - your family and I. I accepted, of course. The ring fit perfectly, the sparkle unavoidable. If your spirit were to exist in a diamond, it would be this one.
I learned of it containing diamonds from your grandparent's 50-year anniversary broach. I learned that you were going to propose to me any day. A morning, your mom told me, when I wouldn't expect it because it would be first thing, and then we'd have the whole day to celebrate and to plan our future. Now as a look at my ring-finger and see it dripping in sparkle, I think back on how much our proposal meant to me just 9 days ago. I wanted that SO badly. I wanted that guarantee of our future. I want to be able to hold up my hand in pride and not even have to say, "look how much he loves me!" Now, I look down and the sadness resurfaces, again, and again. An engagement with no celebration, no parties, no registries, no wedding, no first kiss, no wedding-night. Did the Universe know this was going to happen when you chose a diamond shaped like a teardrop?
Now the whole desire for that beautiful engagement seems so trivial. All I want is you. No jewels or rings or promises, it's all fucking worthless without you. Without your laugh and the boyish glimmer in your eye when you do it. Your soft and inviting voice, always full of love. Your touch, knowing that sometimes there are no words needed, just a hug. Your humor, quite dirty, but still no match for mine. Your wit, always looking for a deeper lesson within. I will try to embody all of those beautiful elements of yours. I will continue to pick myself off the ground, breath by breath, moment by moment. I will try not to let my obsessive thoughts of the past and broken-future control me. I will try to modulate this sadness, one step at a time. I will recognize that grief is shattering to linear thought, it's not a disappearing act and it will come in waves. And I know, that there will never be a moment in my life when I think of you without being grateful for the pureness of our love, more pure than even this gorgeous stone on my hand.
I love you, Ted.
Yesterday, I couldn't do it. I was not breath to breath. I could hardly get out of bed. My mom dragged me out, literally dressing me as if I was a toddler who hadn't yet learned how. We went to the farmer's market to pick up a few things. We had only gone to the market together a couple times but immediately I was slapped by the memories. The same girl was at the cheese booth. Handing out samples to anxious customers. I was one of those customers just a few weeks ago – impatient to try the new goat's milk cheese and purchase it for our dinner guests. The man at the pickled-things booth. My mind raced to all of the jars of pickled calendula, sauerkraut, cucumbers, beets, garlic, olives in our fridge: your favorite snack or daily salad topper. We went into the food-court area. It was just a couple weeks ago we'd shared the Thai Salad. I was hungover, you ate most of it.
The most painful part yet: My eyes glanced at a man who was gingerly reaching across the table to his beloved's hand. He softly rubbed her hand and smiled peacefully at her across the table without words. No! That's how you grab my hand, Teddy. That's our look. That's our peace, and our love, and our gentleness. Fuck! Where are you!?
I'm seated, as far as possible from the smiling couple, trying to eat a crepe that's full of powerfully rich ingredients: smoked salmon, cream, capers, even bacon, I think. The richness disgusts me, it tastes too delectable for my grey insides. I pick at it then push it aside, realizing I'll need to rework my food choices. A little boy, playing with a cardboard sword leftover from his Halloween costume approaches my mother and I. He's slicing away at imaginary bad-guys in space just as I'm desperately looking for my man in the same invisible space. His eyes meet mine with that pure, all-knowing, yet completely innocent gaze of a child. I immediately weep. I think of the boy we were to create, Teddy. Half you, half me. "I hope they'll have your long legs!" I always joked. "Your good teeth and blonde hair," you would respond. "You have blonde hair too!" I would always argue. "My hair is BROWN!" you would say. We would laugh and you'd slide your hand across the picnic table, absentmindedly, to wrap your long, gentle fingers in mine. Both of us, silently and mischievously smiling as we imagined the brightness of the future we knew we deserved and had finally found. "Until then, we'll just practice, A LOT," we'd joke. Tears streamed down my face as the reality of this crushed future faced me through the innocent eyes of the boy with the sword.
Last Wednesday, your family proposed to me on your behalf, Teddy. Your mom, dad, sisters & brothers-in-law took me down to a little sitting area next to your Aunt Ginny's lake. They all held me and cried as your mom opened a ring-box, containing the most breath-taking diamond on Earth, and asked for my hand for you, and more importantly, for us - your family and I. I accepted, of course. The ring fit perfectly, the sparkle unavoidable. If your spirit were to exist in a diamond, it would be this one.
I learned of it containing diamonds from your grandparent's 50-year anniversary broach. I learned that you were going to propose to me any day. A morning, your mom told me, when I wouldn't expect it because it would be first thing, and then we'd have the whole day to celebrate and to plan our future. Now as a look at my ring-finger and see it dripping in sparkle, I think back on how much our proposal meant to me just 9 days ago. I wanted that SO badly. I wanted that guarantee of our future. I want to be able to hold up my hand in pride and not even have to say, "look how much he loves me!" Now, I look down and the sadness resurfaces, again, and again. An engagement with no celebration, no parties, no registries, no wedding, no first kiss, no wedding-night. Did the Universe know this was going to happen when you chose a diamond shaped like a teardrop?
Now the whole desire for that beautiful engagement seems so trivial. All I want is you. No jewels or rings or promises, it's all fucking worthless without you. Without your laugh and the boyish glimmer in your eye when you do it. Your soft and inviting voice, always full of love. Your touch, knowing that sometimes there are no words needed, just a hug. Your humor, quite dirty, but still no match for mine. Your wit, always looking for a deeper lesson within. I will try to embody all of those beautiful elements of yours. I will continue to pick myself off the ground, breath by breath, moment by moment. I will try not to let my obsessive thoughts of the past and broken-future control me. I will try to modulate this sadness, one step at a time. I will recognize that grief is shattering to linear thought, it's not a disappearing act and it will come in waves. And I know, that there will never be a moment in my life when I think of you without being grateful for the pureness of our love, more pure than even this gorgeous stone on my hand.
I love you, Ted.
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