The first holiday without a loved one is quite humbling. It’s not an “I-have-it-better-than-most” feeling, but rather an emotional wash of “I’m-slowly-realizing-what-I-lost.” I felt numb. I felt disengaged.
Every Thanksgiving we watch the Detroit Lions, and every year my grandpa would sit on the edge of his seat whether they won or lost. I usually didn’t spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents—they would visit my aunt and uncle every year—but my mom would always call my grandpa to talk about the game after. I always loved when she called because as the phone rang she would pace the room with a look of excitement on her face. This year, the Lions won. No one made a phone call. In fact, I don’t think many people were interested in the game.
There was an emptiness that permeated the room. It seeped into my bones, and the more I participated in small talk, the stronger it felt. Wasn’t anyone going to say anything meaningful?
My mom wanted to play a game of cards. My grandpa loved cards, but he couldn’t play. I don’t even know if he was watching. I had no desire to sit around the table play cards. It felt so forced—as if everyone was trying to hide the sorrowful awkwardness that filled the room. I ended up winning. $3.60 in dimes. I left the money there. Who wants to carry around that many dimes?
Dinner was silent. We attributed the lack of conversation to the grand amount food on our plates and our immense hunger, but for me, there was a tension that I had zero desire to alleviate. It was just food. Was it anything else before? Did it taste different? To be honest, I don’t really remember.
For the first time in my life, the word “normal” became completely meaningless, but I had an overpowering desire to achieve it. I would crane my neck enough to get a glimpse of the past, but I couldn’t see it clearly, and I craned and craned and craned, and all I saw was a blurred vision of what once was. Why didn’t I take a picture? Why didn’t I record how happy we were? Why are my only memories fruitless desires? I don’t even know if they are real.
Up until now, I would have moments when I didn’t believe you were gone. I would have to remind myself that you had passed, but for some reason, a faint hope lived in my chest that you were still here. Somewhere. Of that, I was convinced. But last week I realized how foolish that was, and while I faked my smiles, I thought of you, the real you, and suddenly I stepped outside of the grief-filled day and saw how bright the morning would be.
You are gone. It became real when you weren’t sitting next to grandma—when the phone didn’t ring when the Lions won. I am finally starting to accept that, and as painful as it is, I am thankful for it. I really, truly am.
