I would say it’s Christmas night, but since I’m on Mountain Standard Time, I really can’t. I haven’t been able to say it truthfully for half an hour, and probably much longer by the time I’m finished here. I’m not sure how important it really is, or how much it was ever really Christmas to begin with. What I can say truthfully is that I have a pain in my right temple, bad enough that I just took some five year old Tylenol that I found in a bathroom drawer. And then I got the hiccups.
Altitude is a weird thing. There is no humidity here, and little oxygen. Denver is a mile high and that’s enough to cause us sea level people some trouble. Add 3500 feet to that, and that’s where you’ll find me, in the basement of a three story house, unable to breathe, feeling as though I’ve been hit by a truck. But there’s snow. Lots of it. And enough animal tracks to make you wonder if hibernation is an urban legend.
For months after Paul died, I was afraid to come back here. The night he died I remember wondering how I could ever be of help to my mom knowing I could never set foot in this house again after what had happened. Over the last couple of months, I’ve somehow lost that fear. It went away on its own, replaced by a mild dread like a ringing in my ears, imperceptible when busy, deafening when quiet. It wasn’t a dread of coming here but rather of feeling something I had barely managed to put behind me. I’m one of those rare people who is usually comfortable riding emotional waves, because you can’t shut yourself off from the bad and still have the good. (At least not without using people.) And because they make life interesting. Waves keep you moving forward, learning, and going on to bigger and better things as a reward for your bravery. But this is one of those waves that I just really didn’t need to ride again, and what’s worse is, I didn’t know how big it would be when I finally got here.
Fortunately it hasn’t been too bad, all things considered. Because he hasn’t left the house.
Christmas is like a relationship. It can be easily ruined by unreasonable expectations, causing anger and depression to everyone involved. To me, Christmas hasn’t been the same since I lost my grandparents, particularly my grandmother. She added something to the holiday every year that I can’t really put my finger on, but I definitely feel its absence since she’s been gone. Every other year or so I go back to Oklahoma to try to get it back, whatever it was, and sometimes I can get somewhat close just by being near the house with the screen door where I would stand staring at the night sky, nose pressed against the cold glass, thinking every red airplane light was Rudolph’s nose. I think maybe this year is the first time I’ve really accepted that that’s as close to what I loved about Christmas as I’ll ever get again. And I guess it’s okay. It’s not the biggest loss I’ve had this year by far, so it feels manageable. Unlike others that I am not quite resigned to just yet.
Things are not right here, but not for the reasons I expected. The house feels like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, the holes being filled by pieces from another puzzle altogether. They cover the space but don’t quite fit. But that’s just stuff, things Paul added to our lives that were taken after his death because we had no legal right to them. Because that’s what matters you know, at the end of things. The things. Well, that’s fine with me. Paul is still in the house, and I would rather have him. His spirit. He chooses to be here. I know this because my superpowers lean toward the empathic, I know what “gone” feels like, and this isn’t it. Not yet anyway.
“Gone” doesn’t feel like what’s surrounding me in this house right now. What’s surrounding me here is warm, and soft like a comforter. “Gone” feels like indifference, and I feel more of that from some of the living than I think I ever will from Paul, no matter how far away he goes.
I can say without any doubt whatsoever, he loves me. For real. Even now. I can’t say that about too many men in my life. The living will say in so many words, I’m here for you. I want us to be friends. They’ll say what makes them look good, what alleviates their own guilt, what they think you want to hear. Whatever they think the right answer is. And then when they get something going for themselves, they’ll disappear and hope you don’t notice, if they even think enough of you to hope for such a thing at all. If they ever thought enough of you to make an effort in the first place. More likely, they were saving that effort for someone else, that special someone they let you think you were for about five minutes, who you can rightfully assume has come along and taken your place when things go inexplicably quiet. Today, I got a Christmas present from Paul, something that he bought for me many months ago. He’s been gone for six months and still I know when he is thinking of me, and today I was reassured yet again that he always thought of me in life as well. He is nothing if not consistent.
I’m finding that to be an incredibly rare quality.
It still makes me sad that he is more willing to make sure I know he is thinking of me than someone who is alive and better able to do so. And it also makes me angry. But you can’t force someone to grow up. You can’t force someone to be what you deserve. You can only walk away when you finally figure out that they will never, ever try. I guess he knew that better than anyone, and I guess that’s why he is the one who has taught me this lesson. Having had a few people in his own life who rarely made an effort, he was certainly the best man for the job.
Paul may be the only man I know who was never afraid to love me back. Not for even one second. The only one who didn’t run because I cared about him, as if he thought he couldn’t live up to it. He knew he could, and he did, and still does. Because he knew deserving love was a choice, not something he was either born into or not. He’s the only one (save my own father) who was brave enough to stick around for me, even after he was gone for good.
His greatest gift to me this year is being that guy, and showing me how low my standards have been for the living. How much I’ve put up with when I deserved so much better, something I may never have learned had he not given me so much better to compare to. That lesson is what has led to other losses that I’m still trying to reconcile, but that were necessary. Because if there is one thing I will no longer tolerate, it is someone who takes me for granted. Who does nothing to reach out to me. Who does nothing to maintain a relationship, because he assumes that I will always want it bad enough to do all the work for him.
There is no relationship on this earth that I want that badly. Not anymore. Paul knows I’ve made that decision and we both know I’m better off for it. But for the time being, the decision has left me alone. Raising your standards will do that, for a time anyway, until the universe can work out its next move on your behalf. And so here he is, keeping me company, making the house warm, making sure I get those sterling silver earrings from Tiffany’s, filling the empty spaces with an invisible hug. And for now, that’s enough for me, because I’ve adopted an all or nothing attitude. I can honestly say that I am fine with nothing if the alternative is less than I deserve.
Today when I got up, I went looking for my mom, carrying her present in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. I found her in her bedroom on her bed, watching TV, looking like the excessive house cleaning before my arrival had left her for dead. I knew where I was. I knew what had happened in that room. And I walked in and sat on the bed far more easily than I ever expected I would.
I looked around. A lot. But there was nothing there.
Hours later I went back and I stood there, where he fell. I know exactly where he fell. I know where the gun was lying when he grabbed it. I know about where the bullet hit the ceiling. I know more than I probably should for someone who wasn’t there, and certainly enough to have not gone in the room at all. But I had to stand in that place, alone, to figure out why there was nothing there, and I did. I stood where he stood, and where he fell, and that’s when I knew why there was nothing there. Because he was not there. He was never there, not in a tragic way. He did not suffer, and so there was nothing left to feel, no lingering pain. He never even hit the floor, because he was gone before gravity even had a chance.
What did hit the floor was no longer him at all.
That’s why the room is okay, and why the house is okay, and why he can be here now. That’s why the house is in complete disarray and yet still full of love, and not tragedy. There is no tragedy here. If anything, there is peace. Not quiet, but peace. That peace you always hear people talk about on Christmas but never really feel. I feel it, and it’s all his.
The Christmas gift from him, specifically, made me emotional. It’s always emotional when you feel love from the last person you expect it from, and know it to be real, when you’re so used to being brushed aside for something you didn’t even know you were competing with until you lost the game. And the truck that’s hit me today is my own, a snowplow pushing all this loss back into a giant pile where I would rather it stay.
Or maybe it’s not a truck at all. Maybe it’s an avalanche.
Altitude is a weird thing. There is no humidity here, and little oxygen. Denver is a mile high and that’s enough to cause us sea level people some trouble. Add 3500 feet to that, and that’s where you’ll find me, in the basement of a three story house, unable to breathe, feeling as though I’ve been hit by a truck. But there’s snow. Lots of it. And enough animal tracks to make you wonder if hibernation is an urban legend.
For months after Paul died, I was afraid to come back here. The night he died I remember wondering how I could ever be of help to my mom knowing I could never set foot in this house again after what had happened. Over the last couple of months, I’ve somehow lost that fear. It went away on its own, replaced by a mild dread like a ringing in my ears, imperceptible when busy, deafening when quiet. It wasn’t a dread of coming here but rather of feeling something I had barely managed to put behind me. I’m one of those rare people who is usually comfortable riding emotional waves, because you can’t shut yourself off from the bad and still have the good. (At least not without using people.) And because they make life interesting. Waves keep you moving forward, learning, and going on to bigger and better things as a reward for your bravery. But this is one of those waves that I just really didn’t need to ride again, and what’s worse is, I didn’t know how big it would be when I finally got here.
Fortunately it hasn’t been too bad, all things considered. Because he hasn’t left the house.
Christmas is like a relationship. It can be easily ruined by unreasonable expectations, causing anger and depression to everyone involved. To me, Christmas hasn’t been the same since I lost my grandparents, particularly my grandmother. She added something to the holiday every year that I can’t really put my finger on, but I definitely feel its absence since she’s been gone. Every other year or so I go back to Oklahoma to try to get it back, whatever it was, and sometimes I can get somewhat close just by being near the house with the screen door where I would stand staring at the night sky, nose pressed against the cold glass, thinking every red airplane light was Rudolph’s nose. I think maybe this year is the first time I’ve really accepted that that’s as close to what I loved about Christmas as I’ll ever get again. And I guess it’s okay. It’s not the biggest loss I’ve had this year by far, so it feels manageable. Unlike others that I am not quite resigned to just yet.
Things are not right here, but not for the reasons I expected. The house feels like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, the holes being filled by pieces from another puzzle altogether. They cover the space but don’t quite fit. But that’s just stuff, things Paul added to our lives that were taken after his death because we had no legal right to them. Because that’s what matters you know, at the end of things. The things. Well, that’s fine with me. Paul is still in the house, and I would rather have him. His spirit. He chooses to be here. I know this because my superpowers lean toward the empathic, I know what “gone” feels like, and this isn’t it. Not yet anyway.
“Gone” doesn’t feel like what’s surrounding me in this house right now. What’s surrounding me here is warm, and soft like a comforter. “Gone” feels like indifference, and I feel more of that from some of the living than I think I ever will from Paul, no matter how far away he goes.
I can say without any doubt whatsoever, he loves me. For real. Even now. I can’t say that about too many men in my life. The living will say in so many words, I’m here for you. I want us to be friends. They’ll say what makes them look good, what alleviates their own guilt, what they think you want to hear. Whatever they think the right answer is. And then when they get something going for themselves, they’ll disappear and hope you don’t notice, if they even think enough of you to hope for such a thing at all. If they ever thought enough of you to make an effort in the first place. More likely, they were saving that effort for someone else, that special someone they let you think you were for about five minutes, who you can rightfully assume has come along and taken your place when things go inexplicably quiet. Today, I got a Christmas present from Paul, something that he bought for me many months ago. He’s been gone for six months and still I know when he is thinking of me, and today I was reassured yet again that he always thought of me in life as well. He is nothing if not consistent.
I’m finding that to be an incredibly rare quality.
It still makes me sad that he is more willing to make sure I know he is thinking of me than someone who is alive and better able to do so. And it also makes me angry. But you can’t force someone to grow up. You can’t force someone to be what you deserve. You can only walk away when you finally figure out that they will never, ever try. I guess he knew that better than anyone, and I guess that’s why he is the one who has taught me this lesson. Having had a few people in his own life who rarely made an effort, he was certainly the best man for the job.
Paul may be the only man I know who was never afraid to love me back. Not for even one second. The only one who didn’t run because I cared about him, as if he thought he couldn’t live up to it. He knew he could, and he did, and still does. Because he knew deserving love was a choice, not something he was either born into or not. He’s the only one (save my own father) who was brave enough to stick around for me, even after he was gone for good.
His greatest gift to me this year is being that guy, and showing me how low my standards have been for the living. How much I’ve put up with when I deserved so much better, something I may never have learned had he not given me so much better to compare to. That lesson is what has led to other losses that I’m still trying to reconcile, but that were necessary. Because if there is one thing I will no longer tolerate, it is someone who takes me for granted. Who does nothing to reach out to me. Who does nothing to maintain a relationship, because he assumes that I will always want it bad enough to do all the work for him.
There is no relationship on this earth that I want that badly. Not anymore. Paul knows I’ve made that decision and we both know I’m better off for it. But for the time being, the decision has left me alone. Raising your standards will do that, for a time anyway, until the universe can work out its next move on your behalf. And so here he is, keeping me company, making the house warm, making sure I get those sterling silver earrings from Tiffany’s, filling the empty spaces with an invisible hug. And for now, that’s enough for me, because I’ve adopted an all or nothing attitude. I can honestly say that I am fine with nothing if the alternative is less than I deserve.
Today when I got up, I went looking for my mom, carrying her present in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. I found her in her bedroom on her bed, watching TV, looking like the excessive house cleaning before my arrival had left her for dead. I knew where I was. I knew what had happened in that room. And I walked in and sat on the bed far more easily than I ever expected I would.
I looked around. A lot. But there was nothing there.
Hours later I went back and I stood there, where he fell. I know exactly where he fell. I know where the gun was lying when he grabbed it. I know about where the bullet hit the ceiling. I know more than I probably should for someone who wasn’t there, and certainly enough to have not gone in the room at all. But I had to stand in that place, alone, to figure out why there was nothing there, and I did. I stood where he stood, and where he fell, and that’s when I knew why there was nothing there. Because he was not there. He was never there, not in a tragic way. He did not suffer, and so there was nothing left to feel, no lingering pain. He never even hit the floor, because he was gone before gravity even had a chance.
What did hit the floor was no longer him at all.
That’s why the room is okay, and why the house is okay, and why he can be here now. That’s why the house is in complete disarray and yet still full of love, and not tragedy. There is no tragedy here. If anything, there is peace. Not quiet, but peace. That peace you always hear people talk about on Christmas but never really feel. I feel it, and it’s all his.
The Christmas gift from him, specifically, made me emotional. It’s always emotional when you feel love from the last person you expect it from, and know it to be real, when you’re so used to being brushed aside for something you didn’t even know you were competing with until you lost the game. And the truck that’s hit me today is my own, a snowplow pushing all this loss back into a giant pile where I would rather it stay.
Or maybe it’s not a truck at all. Maybe it’s an avalanche.
