When I think of an "orphan," I think of Oliver Twist.
Or I think of images on the television of children far away from me.
I think of children.
I don't think of a fifty-five year old man.
Welcome, fellow travelers on the grief journey
and a special welcome to anyone new to The Grieving Room.
We meet every Monday evening.
Whether your loss is recent, or many years ago;
whether you've lost a person, or a pet;
or even if the person you're "mourning" is still alive,
("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time),
you can come to this diary and say whatever you need to say.
We can't solve each other's problems,
but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Unlike a private journal
here, you know: your words are read by people who
have been through their own hell.
There's no need to pretty it up or tone it down..
It just is.
Nevertheless, very early Wednesday morning will be the one year anniversary of my mother's death. My father died in September of 1997.
I have spent a year as an orphan. I have no parents to call or visit. I don't need to set a place for them at the dinner table. I remember their birthdays but I don't have to call up and sing the "Happy Birthday" song into the phone. Nine times out of ten, I'd sing into an answering machine, anyway. Now there's no answering machine. There's no telephone number to call. The first telephone number I ever memorized, the one that saw me through my childhood, youth, young manhood...and into middle age- the only one I can associate with my parents- no longer works.
If it's real, can it still be a metaphor? And vice versa?
The last time I wrote for The Grieving Room, I wrote my catharsis letter. I needed to write a letter to my mom to take the next step in the grieving process. I still think either she or my dad came to me in a dream shortly before I wrote the letter to, in effect, tell me to get on with it. If that sounds mean or cold, it's not. Such a thing would be in their natures, and the idea that I would move on is in mine. They knew that about me. They raised me to be that way. "Dependable" is not a bad adjective.
http://www.dailykos.com/...
If you haven't written a letter to your departed, I recommend it. It helps.
What I have is my dad's box of army stuff. I have box after box of my mom's research. I have memories.
And I have my wife and daughters. There's still time to leave a good impression.