Carbonated Bayou

 

My friends are checking in on me. They are asking me how I’m doing and I tell them, “It’s a lot of ups and downs.” This is the typical refrain that we say about going through grief. And it feels sort of true to me. But when I think about ups and downs, I think about thrilling roller coaster rides and dramatic high school relationships. But it’s easier to say this than to try to explain what I’m really feeling.

What this really feels like is being submerged in a thick, murky carbonated bayou. The putrid water is over my head of course. When I first heard the news, I was panicked and shocked, flailing around without oxygen. In the days since, I have perhaps grown some sort of gill structure that allows me to exist in this way without needing to come up much for air. Or maybe part of me died, too, and so I can move about in this underworld. I do normal things like go to the grocery store, complete paperwork, and throw away the flowers that turn brown in vases around my house. But my expression is flat. Everything is slower moving under water. I’m not excited about much of anything. I can’t conjure colors in my mind. I can’t find my direction or bearings in the impenetrable surroundings. 

But as I said, it is carbonated. There are bubbles of happiness I can access as needed. I run into a friend and we catch up about fun summer happenings. My son has success on the potty and we clap and cheer. I smile and say good morning to neighbors on my walk. I make a joke because my mind is still in the habit of making those connections, a vestigial organ. These bubbles of happiness are there, but they are limited. After I use one, my mouth falls back into a straight line. My body is still sore. 

This is not a straightforward period of mourning. There are plenty of unanswered questions and conversations that needed to happen. There is a gaping hole of unmet potential. Sweet memories are chased by broken promises. These are the alligators that live with me in this bayou. They snap at my sleep and scrape my throat with rough scales. 

There are also the occasional streams of sunlight that make their way through the bog. They are the small signs from beyond that are too perfect to be coincidence. They are pieces of conversations about him that suddenly become physical objects in front of my eyes. They are sounds and songs. They are intuitive movies that play out in my mind to try to explain how things happened. I follow the beams of light upward to the trees where they filter through the Spanish moss. His presence takes up the whole sky. For a while then I can live up in the tree branches, soaking in the sun and rain, and wait to be carried home with the birds.