This post is a version of an email I just sent to my husband, but it felt so big to me today, I thought I would jot it all down.
I was reading this letter from Sheryl Sandberg to her husband today in my office with tears just streaming down my face. It felt like all the things from seven years ago that I felt and did and said after my brother killed himself. And you know what? I didn’t feel sad when I was reading it because she was sad or that she lost her husband or that I lost my brother, although all those things are sad. I felt sad because I felt like I’d lost touch with THAT me, the me who knew that everything was ephemeral and the me who was cheek to cheek with the greater feeling of making life matter because I had to since Garrett wasn’t here. I felt so weird reading that because it made me feel like I’d misplaced my grief, as though I’d failed at remembering how important the big picture is after someone dies.
I’ll always feel like something is missing. I say it all the time and postulate whether it’s my keys that I’ve misplaced or my phone I’ve dumped in the fridge or the stack of papers I was supposed to bring to work, but it’s never those things. He’s always going to be missing and that’s never going to change, but I think sometimes I miss my grief. As though it’s a person and that I should be hanging on a little tighter to it because it’s the last of him that exists on earth. It never goes away, but it doesn’t live in the same state anymore after this many years. Which is probably a good thing. Its proximity just felt like an oddly fitted shoe today after reading Sandberg’s letter.
About 20 minutes ago I caught myself thinking about another harebrained idea and eventually I was knee-deep in googling barn kits because why shouldn’t we buy a plot of land and erect a barn and open our hofbrauhaus from scratch? Life is short. We best get to it.