Tagged missing

Honoring the magic.

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I’m going to go on and say it: There aren’t many things that can rival the magic of Santa.

As a kid, of course. And even as an adult.

Maybe it’s the kind of feeling¬†we spend the rest of our lives trying to find or to imitate. It’s cause for cliff dives and drop offs. You don’t find it in filler stuff, like grocery shopping or bill paying or tv watching. You think it should be in other people, so you dig around inside them like lost and ancient treasure. You cast it in shadows on the wall, form it in your warm palms like wet dough. You have to make it up.

But maybe it’s the kind of thing you never have again. And you have to be ok with that. And you have to live every day knowing that magic is somehow gone and that might be it, as far as magic goes. But you had it and so you’re grateful. That so-very-adult word, “grateful.” Because damnit, that’s what you should be. YOU HAVE ALL THE THINGS.

Ok. And you breathe.

I met that one person, like a mother and a best friend and an everything, and she was magic. And I didn’t know her for that long, but enough to spend one of the best holiday seasons with she and her family, feeling like a real loved and wanted creature. Feeling magical, amplified, the kind you can’t glean from workplace successes, fame or even romantic relationships… which I try to explain to A.

So it’s this time of year, I’m reminded of that and that’s what I celebrate so hard. Because I felt it once. And so every year, for two months in anticipation, I listen to Christmas tunes, ogle wreaths and trees, daydream about holiday events, shop for ugly sweaters and puffy Santa hats…

And that’s what Christmas is to me now. Plus the lights, like¬†hopeful stars in every color.

Screaming

I wish she were alive. I wish it every moment I get to think. It’s exhausting.

I guess it isn’t wishing. It’s more like pining. It’s more like the grief that everyone keeps telling me about like it’s a fucking diagnosis boiled down to atoms and gravity. Listen. I’m angry a little. I’m angry because I know everyone is just waiting for me to get over this. I’m supposed to take comfort in the fact that people die and I was lucky to have her for the time I did, blah blah. You know. Canned stuff.

When I open my mouth, I have to be careful I don’t let her name out. Sometimes it slips because, even when she was alive, her name was always on my tongue. We had adventures together. Big talks. Epic breakdowns. Vulnerability. Starry nights. Just me, her and the fish. And the moon always watching.

But I know it gets old. I know because I’ve watched people grieve. I’ve grieved myself. And with the same silly expectations I place on others, I place on myself: move on already. Right. I’m going between logic and heartache like it’s a fucking tennis match. And my brain, like I said, is tired.

I will hear everyone’s words. I will appreciate people thinking of me, the hugs, the text-message checkups. But it will stop. It will be a few months down the line. And that stuff stops and you feel like you’re supposed to stop too.

I remember when my dad died, over 10 years ago, everyone was pretty forthcoming with the support. Father’s Day was a big one. Year after year, I regrieved. And friends who thought of it would text. My mom would check in. It was nice. Not necessary but kind. After a while, I came to expect it. Because, just like all those kids out there remembering their dads, someone was remembering me. It was like celebrating no dad, the void that was always licking at my heels.

But then it stopped, slowly. And you know, this year. No one said a word to me. And when people did talk, they didn’t mention it. Like somehow he evaporated and time has “healed” me. I always want to scream, though, like a selfish asshole… “Hey! IT STILL HURTS! IT STILL MATTERS JUST AS MUCH AS BEFORE!”

The screaming never makes it out.

And now. I guess, I’m still screaming. Because of a loss, but also a lifetime of reliving it. Maybe that’s why I’m angry. Over and over. Grief.