Undertow

I keep hearing that grief comes in waves, as if I am sitting on the beach letting the water rush up around me. Growing up in the mountains of southern Colorado, I don't really know much about the ocean. I can remember clearly though my first grade teacher (or one of those early ones) talking about undertow. The way it was described to me was that you could be close enough to the shore to see people you love and then suddenly, a current could sweep you out and away. Even strong swimmers could be claimed by undertow.

This morning, I awoke to find an ambulance in our cul-de-sac. I didn't think much of it as I was trying to get Ace out for a morning run. After our run, some homework, and a change of clothes, I set out for my day. As I passed the house on the corner by our small park, I looked up. Two men, who I later recognized as part of the coroner's team, were carrying a black bag. I stared for a moment trying to decipher what was happening. I recognized the black shape from television shows like Dexter and CSI. I looked away quickly, shamed by my voyeuristic gaze. I had just seen a dead body, but what right did I have to witness the last time this man would leave his home?

I've been troubled by this event all day. There was something so unsanctified, unholy, irreverent about the whole thing. It seems unfair. A whole life ended today and there was no pomp or pageantry. No one wept in plain view. Just a bag and two profane pallbearers. Perhaps the worst part to me was my own presence. I had the distinct feeling that I should not have been there. Then again, I've been wondering, perhaps that's exactly where I needed to be. To bear witness to the literal passing of a life before my eyes. To be present for the death of a stranger in a way I couldn't be present for my own grandfather's death.

It was only a moment. What could I really have seen or felt in a moment? How could I have been part of something significant in the time it takes to look away? Maybe it's okay not to know exactly what is happening. Maybe instead simple cognizance of change is what matters. And maybe the ways people--those we know and those we do not--touch us is beyond our control.

A package came to my grandmother's house last week. She opened the box to find my grandfather's Valentine's Day gift for her--three rings. As she told me this story, I started to cry. She said to me, "Everyday I got to say, 'I love you.' and 'Come back home safe.' And every night I got to kiss him and tell him I loved him. I knew him better than anyone. I was so lucky to love him." Even after his death, my grandfather is still touching the lives of everyone who knew him. I bought my bike this week and it feels cruel that I won't be able to share that with the man who helped buy it.

So maybe I am being pulled out from shore. Perhaps, though, this is the vantage point I need.