By Meredith Buse
It’s five o’clock in the morning.
It’s five o’clock in the morning.
1 c. warm water.
The time is not unusual. But the tears are.
½ oil.
They come unbidden, but I welcome them. These tears feel clean. Cleansing. Quiet.
1 tsp. honey.
Not rageful. Not keening. Not wailing so loudly your
five-year-old comes running downstairs to see if you are okay.
2 ½ c. flour.
Those tears, too, have been shed in this kitchen. Mostly on
the floor.
Early on, it was easier to connect to my grief while lying
prostrate on the cold tile. For a time after I lost him, it was the only thing
that helped.
The rabbi said, “Maybe a ritual.” Daily. Weekly. A walk. A
prayer. A habit of study.
I thought yoga and baking bread. But how did that serve at
all as a remembrance of a man who could do neither. I nodded, mute.
I favored legs up the wall. A posture in which you lay on
your back and, not shockingly, stretch your legs out vertically and place them
against a wall to be supported and held up, letting the blood rush down from
your feet and feeling kind of magical. An ironic tribute to a man whose legs,
shriveled, tiny and so depleted by the end, had long, brittle, yellow toenails that
made me believe those geriatrists who say clipping nails and trimming hair are
more important to elder care than big-ticket surgeries. I tried this pose at
first, without telling anyone, but it didn’t feel right to me.
I thought about talking to him. Even tentatively tried once
or twice—quietly, or in my head. But this didn’t feel right either. To me, he’s
not here. He no longer exists. What I have left is just those things I
remember, what meaning I can make for myself.
And the smell of baking bread, which for me, equals grief.
Or maybe it’s comfort.
He always said he didn’t like baking (my mom did more of that),
because his lack of hand control made it hard to take heavy, hot trays out of
the oven.
“Man, if I had hands, I’d be dangerous,” he would say with a
smile. Sometimes a sigh. It was his refrain for any time the world reminded him
he was not like everyone else and couldn’t do the things we take for granted—walk,
button a shirt, grip his morning coffee cup—after which he would promptly forget.
I searched “grief for a parent” online. One article talked
about losing one’s mother. And how, especially for women, there is sometimes a
coming into oneself—after the initial grief ends, of being more able to find
one’s true self when no longer in the shadow of a parent who so defined you. My
experience is different than this, but it still resonates.
Losing my father has given me the impetus to cut through all
the bullshit. Reminded me that we only have so much time here. Months ago, I
made a list of things I wanted more of in my life and things I wanted less of—more
of yoga, sex, sleeping in, spending time with family, ritual and connection;
less of spending time with people who annoy me, facebook and screen time,
feeling buried by my family’s possessions, and worrying about money, or work, or
anything. I put this list away and forgot about it while I did the heavy work
of grieving and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
But now, I realize, I’ve slowly been moving toward making my
life—remaking it—according to that list. And, no, the yoga and the baking are
not things my dad did. Not things he could have done. Not even things he would
have wanted to do if he had hands or legs.
1 ½ c. whole wheat flour.
They’re things I do.
1 tbs. salt.
They’re uniquely and wonderfully, me.
¼ cup sugar.
They’re things that help me be who I want, how I want, in
the world. Which is something I know he would have been proud of.
1 tbs. yeast.
And tonight, as I braid the dough and say a prayer mourning
the dead only by exalting the wonder of living, I know. It’s all him.
