Grief — I saw the face behind the Monster
And I wanted to call you.
And I picked up the phone.
If LOVE is a beautiful child, with amber eyes, smiling lips, and jokes on his tongue, then who is Grief?
Maybe it’s the child after he grew up.
Maybe the child become a boring one, bitter and sorrowful, reeking of unfulfilled dreams & wasted potential. Maybe his lack of meaning and purpose turned him hateful.
And maybe, just maybe, the child, love turned into angry grief, walks the world today hurting others as much as possible, so they would feel the pain he does.
You rooted for the Child.
You nurtured LOVE and let it grow. You didn’t even think about the inevitable day when the child will grow old and disappear. When the child will leave nothing but a hole inside your heart.
The Child teaches you his lessons. He brings connection. The child holds your hand and it’s always there for you.
To hug you, to raise you, to nurture you. To teach you about navigating life. To crack a joke when you need to hear one and smile in face of adervsity.
The child is pure.
Forgiving.
He is honest and raw, it’s nothing but joy and belonging.
It’s amazing and a rare feeling — to be so connected (in thoughts and action) with someone.
It’s a blessing actually since few people can feel that in their lifetime.
You were (are) one of them.
Those who you love belong to you and you belong to those who love you — say the Hebrew.
Not only did we belong — we were parts of the same Soul.
And it showed in the way in which we talked — didn’t need words, since we were on the same frequency.
It showed in our laughs, so raw and sincere, the whole house could hear us. But weren’t allowed inside our little world, with our inside jokes and inside stories.
It’s not that we were gatekeepers — we were merely atune on the same frequency.
Ours.
It showed in how our voices went up a pitch when we talked to each other.
It showed in how I would devour all your stories, your anecdotes, your memories, your wise words.
It showed in what your hugs said you are loved, you are loved, you are loved.
How you greeted me my Child, my sweetest child. The joy in your voice audible.
And it showed in how I felt — knowing you are my shelter, and you are my family, and you are my home and you are love.
And I dialed your number.
And it rang…and it rang…and it rang.
The day, inevitably, came. No one can escape it.
Child was no longer LOVE, it became the Grief that brought upon the ultimate heartbreak, the anger and the pain, the pain, the pain — so, so much pain, the strongest pain one can ever feel.
Indescribable.
Unfathomable.
Unbearable.
The type of pain that rips you apart, shatters you into a billion pieces, throws you to the wolves, and leaves you undone.
The type of pain which you feel everywhere — in the air, in the lungs, in the smells, in the food, in the sea, in the sky, in the church, in the bus, in the house, in the music, in the movies, in the night.
(have you ever tasted ash and smelled rotten fish when presented your favorite food?)
This pain is such a bitch at first, it just knocks you down. Without warning. It pushes you against the wall, shoves her hand in your throat, punches you in the stomach until you gasp, searching for air.
It leaves you defenseless and then laughs in your face.
The pain plays with you for a while, invading and tormeting.
Then it leaves.
Just like that.
It gives you space for a couple of minutes, hours, days, weeks — then it just strikes again, harder, faster, stronger.
And again.
And again.
And again.
It keeps going on and on and on and you can’t take it anymore. But you carry on.
“You thought this was all? There’s a lot more where that came from.
And. You. Will. Feel. All. Of. It.”
And no one picked up the call.
Until the day when you look the pain in the eyes. And you see the face behind the Monster that’s been tormenting you.
And you see the Child — the LOVE is still there. The pain is really the LOVE so you smile at the heartbreak.
You know that space in your heart will never be whole again.
And you know it’s ok because it held someone so special…and you loved that someone so, so, so much.
And the pain will still be there, but it will be a warm pain, a pain that reminds you of the LOVE. And you enjoy feeling the pain — because it honors something great.
And suddenly, the pain has its own voice.
And you start telling his story, the story of LOVE and belonging, the story of family and acceptance, the story of power and becoming, the wise man’s story.
You tell the story of how he carried you in his arms, all the way from the church to the family home, because you were sick.
You tell the story of frozen winters, when he would take the sleigh down from the attic, the dog from the kennel, then take you out sledding, old and tired bones leaving footprints in the snow.
You tell the story of how he used to sit in the shade, eyes closed, taking a rest from the day’s chores, sense you, open his eyes… “it’s too warm outside, my dear child.”
Stories. All you have now.
Such a treasure.
You tell the story again and again. And you do him justice. And you think of him.
And you remember his words. His voice. His smile. His teachings.
And you carry him in your heart — in the air, in the lungs, in the smells, in the food, in the sea, in the sky, in the church, in the bus, in the house, in the music, in the movies, in the night.
And the pain is still there, but it’s not a Monster anymore.
Now it’s a token, the price you pay for loving someone so deeply, so truly, so purely, with all your heart and your soul.
And the void is still there, inside the heart and you notice it and you nurture it and you give thanks and sing songs of gratitude for having and holding this love.
And you grieve and you live and you feel the pain and feel the love and you smile while you cry and you cry while you laugh, because what else is there?
Tomorrow would’ve been your birthday, but I know better than to call. You are gone and will never come back .
But you are still here and will never leave my side. And you don’t need me to cry. You need me to learn, to grow, to become.
I can’t call, but I can write.
And I will write until my fingers burn and I will love you and cherish you and be grateful for you and pity the men who didn’t knew you — did they miss out, or what?
This is for you, old man.
