Monday, May 26, 2014

A sea of love beneath

I remember Jason. I remember his soft head. I remember his disalarming smile. I remember our battles. I remember how much he loved his subwoofers. I remember how much he loved me and Carise. I remember his demons. I remember his laugh. I remember getting high with him and just laughing so terribly hard. I remember fighting with him. I remember how he loved to climb trees. I remember his smile. Did I say that already? The memories loop.

The problem with someone dying is that they stop showing up in your life and you're forced to recycle old memories to regain the sense of connection and intimacy. And the longer they're gone, the more you long for that intimacy and the memories drift further and further away. And every time a holiday or birthday comes up (and with Jason it feels constant with Memorial Day and Veteran's Day and every other rally round the flag holiday this independent freedom loving nation honors), you're forced to reckon with the fact the he's not here to call and say 'hey' or 'thank you for your service' or 'stop being such a dick, Jas.'

So you start to recycle old memories and year after year you feel cheaper by the attempt to remember him. You sift through old pictures and realize you've used up all the good ones to put on FB and people get it. They get it. They feel sad to see it and so you start saying less and thus remembering less because frankly there isn't that much that floats organically to the surface because its been so damn long since you've seen the little son of a bitch. And what's the point really? Since he's not even here to pick up the call.

206-931-5883. That's Jason's old number. Every time I punch 206 into Skype, that number pops up. I don't delete it. It's comforting. I don't ring it either. That would hurt too much.

Silence is what exists now in this space between Jason and me. So many years, most of my life and all of my childhood filled with back and forth daily noise --his voice. Oh how I longed for this silence then and how I long for that noise now. When I do remember him, a layer of sadness rises to my lips. What follows though is a sea of love beneath. I say hello to him and meet the silence with as much grace as I can.

Each year, I can only hope to have the grace and courage to continue to speak about him. About his smile, his wit, his subwoofers, his heart. His passion for being a soldier and being of service.

1 comment:

xcaucasus said...

made me think of the people that I lost, and that I miss...