There are times when I’m driving or walking or showering when I ask Siri to “play music I like.” He misses the mark more than he hits it. So when he nails it, it feels soooo good! Mostly, I prefer old knowns rather than new unknowns. There is intrinsic comfort in nostalgia that I am steadfastly attracted to. Songs that transport me to the safety of different moments from my past.
Other times, Siri seemingly knows when Ken is heavier on my mind and somehow manages to play track after track of songs I associate intimately with him. Most of them are ones I remember him singing in his velvety voice. It’s like the universe knows I’m a little seized up in some way, and playing these songs is a kind of key to unlock me–to connect emotional dots my conscious mind is unaware of or ignoring.
I can’t say it’s always felt as good as it does now. The memories haven’t changed, just the orientation of my psyche–which I’m very grateful for. I was walking the other day, and one of these songs came on. I was so deeply lost in thought and my surroundings, it truly caught me off guard. I was back with him in a flash of a moment. My eyes welled up. Not in the way this exact song had manifested in the months after Ken died. Then, it was a stinging reminder of something I no longer had. But with the grace of time, a little therapy and a lot of words typed, it’s still a reminder; not of something I no longer have, but of something incredible that I experienced. And something that still exists within me–grafted into my very being.
Time passes. Perspectives shift. You become comfortable with the discomfort of not knowing so many things. Nowadays, these songs–even if they stir emotion–aren’t debilitating, though sometimes, they stoke just enough exquisite pain to remind me of the breadth and depth of a great love.
One of the lines from the song I wrote about earlier is “Sometimes goodbye is a second chance,” and I feel that sentiment deeply in all the ways.
My relationship with grief is in constant negotiation. It’s like standing on a surfboard that can pivot in any direction on its own, and my only job is to remain standing. It’s been twelve years of writing and thinking and living and missing and feeling. Maybe in that time, I’ve become an expert “grief surfer.” I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
But, I’m certain it’s a life thing.
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