Rush Hour on Memory Lane

Grieving In A World That Doesn’t Slow Down

I couldn’t grieve until 4pm, too much to do. But I’d need to before the day was over. After three years, I’m more familiar with the rhythm of my grief. It still manages to sneak up on me, but I know its usual hiding spots. And I’ve stopped expecting the world to slow down while I heal.

I knew what needed to be done, but I didn’t know when I’d have time to do it. Grief, I’m realizing, has a logistical element. There’s no time for it between pouring latte art and small talk. My job is to create moments of pause for others. My turn could wait.

Plus, no one wants to talk to a barista with puffy eyes and downer face. First impressions are everything, and this was a new client. I’d have to cry afterwards.

I kept it together, everyone was happy. Afterwards, I loaded my equipment into the rented U-Haul and secured everything properly. Then I checked the GPS. Red route, heavy traffic, ETA 1 hour: bingo. I plugged my phone in, cued up my Dad playlist and made space for the memories.

It didn’t take long before I was stuck in traffic. Inching forward, I imagined myself in a dark room with an old projector. My memories were slides and I was sorting through a pile of them, loading the best ones into the carousel. I added a few extra slides, why not? Nowhere else to be.

The Rolling Stones started playing, right on schedule. I imagined my thumb on a circular button and pressed down. The projector whirred.

Ka-Chunk.

I hear the electric guitar before I open my eyes. It’s the weekend. I smell garlic and onions, he made potatoes for breakfast. My favorite.

Ka-Chunk.

I’m standing on his shoulders, he’s crouched underwater. I hold his hands and find my balance. Then, for a moment, I’m weightless flying through the air.

Ka-Chunk.

His vegetable garden is taking off. He’s excitedly showing me the arugula and kale. He hands me a leaf to eat, beaming with pride. I wonder where this version of him was when I was a kid.

Ka-Chunk.

We’re in San Francisco having lunch at Wise Son’s Deli in the Mission. I just told him that he is going to have a granddaughter. The sun is shining. He puts his hand on my shoulder from across the table.

Ka-Chunk.

He briefly looks at me with tears in his eyes then back down to his newborn granddaughter. She’s only a few hours old. He’s rocking her gently and singing to her. He looks back at me. “She’s perfect.”

Ka-Chunk.

We’re saying goodbye. It’s Covid, I closed my business and we’re moving to Oak Park. They’re staying in Sonoma. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. We’re hugging and I don’t want to let go, I’m afraid this is our last hug. After awhile, I let go.

Ka-Chunk.

We’re talking on the phone finalizing the details for his trip in May. It’s been a few years. He hasn’t met my son yet. We’re excited, it’s been too long. “See you in May, love you too.”

Ka-Chunk.

It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed trying to understand my Stepmom through her accent and tears. I’m numb. I call my brother.

Ka-Chunk.

We’re in Sonoma picking out a coffin and flower arrangements. The room has no windows and I’m zoned out flipping through the coffin catalog. My mind is on his funeral playlist. I have to get it right.

Ka-Chunk.

I’m standing under an apple tree and just finished giving his eulogy. It was short but impactful. I made it to the end before crying, but barely. I lost it when I looked at my little sister. She’s only 10. There’s a vineyard behind me. It’s normally quiet but today we were blasting Jimi Hendrix. We finished lowering him into the ground when the guitar solo kicked in.

I turn up the volume from my phone and throw a few more flowers in. Birds of Paradise, his favorite. Was. Soon they were covered too. Neil Young’s Wildflowers plays and I break again.

Everyone is starting to leave but I don’t want to go. I’m not ready. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I need more time.

Ka-Chunk.

I’m back in the U-Haul and my cheeks are wet. I’m crying and smiling. I feel lighter. I take my exit and once more I’m grateful for the traffic. I could have used a little longer, but that’s the name of the game. Grief is never finished, just chipped away at.

Meanwhile, life keeps moving.

I’m lying on the floor, holding my son’s hand as he finally drifts off. I check my phone. Three years ago today, this was around when it happened. As my son drifts off, I wonder what my dad used to think about, lying beside me. Time does a funny thing in that moment, at once I’m a father and child.

I stay on the floor a bit longer, close my eyes and load up the slides. I’m in my childhood bedroom, I hear the electric guitar again. I reach for the doorknob and turn it.

I’m smiling.

Ka-Chunk.