Days of Havisham…

The sun is scorching. Our nation is celebrating its birth. It must be Havisham Days. I thought I recognized the melancholy, the unexpected and unexplained tears, the anxiety, and the pall that shadows each year at this time.

For the uninitiated, The Norwegian died on a sunny day in the woods over Independence Day weekend. Independence seemed so cruel a moniker, so in this home, the 4th of July was renamed Havisham Days. You know, after Miss Havisham of Great Expectations.

She was jilted at the alter. The love of my life had a heart attack. However one loses their love, the results are the same. Crazy takes over for a few days a year and we wander our homes in despair. While Miss Havisham was in a mansion wearing a decaying wedding dress; this girl is in a condo, wiping snot and clinging to a skittish tabby. I do have access to my wedding dress should things take a darker turn.

Grief is a cruel and sardonic master. Some days, countering its hold is too much, and the dam breaks. That is Havisham Days. Choosing to celebrate the grief must be some measure of how deeply we loved, non?

What’s a girl to do during a few-day grief celebration? There’s the constant welling of tears. Yesterday at work, in a meeting–that was fun. And so very professional. There’s the marking of time, remembering the moments of that day. There are messages from those who remember and those who were there. There’s that pain in the chest that most days hints at its existence. During Havisham Days, it touts its presence with anvil strength gripping the heart.

And then there’s The Chickens. How does one convey to them how deeply they were loved by this man? How to make them know how over the moon he would be with who they are, what they have accomplished, and how they move about in the world.

How does one teach little GrandBears that there was a man who would have hung on their every utterance, cheered their first steps, basked in their presence, and been their biggest cheerleader? The man who would have indulged their every whim, as is the way of grandparents, and helped guide them on a true path, is not here.

How does one explain to Chickens and GrandBears that, for some twist of fate, they don’t get that? That, as a family, we are no longer whole. That every holiday, celebration, birth, and accomplishment is missing a piece. That we laugh, but only so much. That the reason we start each holiday with a toast to him is that we are still devastated that he is not with us.

The mastery of grief is its inherent cruelty. And the only way to counter that is to celebrate the time we had, laugh at the absurdity of it, and rejoice in the love that we shared.

And put on an old wedding dress and wander about our homes with a cat and a box of Kleenex.