Dad had just gone up the driveway in a maroon colored body-bag: thick plastic with a quiet nylon zipper - reminding me of an insulated pizza delivery bag used to keep orders warm upon arrival. I had watched him go up the driveway in shiny black cars my entire life - leaving too often, but never for always.
I sat with my mother at the front porch picnic table; we didn't say a word, but smiled at one another the way people do who just survived a disaster - happy to have pulled through, but fully aware of the loss. I was relieved I would no longer have to helplessly watch my father being tossed against the rocks, pulled under the white water, and sent over the falls, but I couldn't help thinking how my mother was next. This was one of those clearly marked moments in time that fits squarely between past and future. My five stages of grief had overlapped, and were all out of order.
*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER
4 comments:
"This was one of those clearly marked moments in time that fits squarely between past and future. My five stages of grief had overlapped, and were all out of order."
That's very insightful. :)
And wow! What a drawing.
Thank you.
I've never thought Kubler-Ross had it just right, although I heard her speak once at USM, decades ago, I think, possibly with my grandmother. And she was brilliant.
Those stages always seemed to weave in and out and around each other, for me. Tangling and untangling. And sorting themselves out enough, in time. Not ever done, but enough to let in more of the present, when the present wasn't also filled with one or more of those stages.
The lack of license plate and faintest hint of a driver makes this drawing all the more sad, in a way that speaks of finality and loss, for me.
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