When a loved one has the nerve to die, it’s a gut punch that knocks the wind out of me. Even if I knew it was coming. Then I get up, get back in the game, and work through the realization that they’re gone.
I know that they’re gone intellectually. But habit lives on. Fondness lives on. There’s still a presence. And so it’s been since our friend Brad died. He’s been gone a week and a half, but I find myself expecting to see him at our local watering hole, or walking to the Ace Hardware in the neighborhood. The Cleveland Guardians are doing well so far in the MLB playoffs, and, because he was a longtime Cleveland fan (Brad has an autographed photo of Bob Feller,) I think about talking to him about their success.
I’ll read an article that I just know our friend Ulrich would’ve appreciated–and one that I’d like to talk with him about–and remember there is no Ulrich.
Hell, sometimes I want to talk to Janet—whom we lost in January—about the past several weeks which marked the end of Brad’s time. To this day I think about calling my mom and dad about some news, though they’ve been gone since 1992 and 1991, respectively.
It’s kind of random, I’m not sure what triggers these moments. It might be at a dinner at a place you used to go to with the departed; it might be on a beautiful spring day when you used to take a walk with your friend. A song. A smell. And it hits you: Absence.
The person’s walk, smile, voice—their tics, the way they made you nuts sometimes. Absence is a pure thing that allows you to recall everything you loved and that you didn’t love.
It used to unnerve me. But I’ve concluded that ultimately, absence is a presence, and for me, a comforting one.
Mike, this is beautiful and perfect… “absence is a presence”… that’s poetry. We were just visiting Tony at Brad’s…Tony’s apartment. The apartment. And that idea that absence is a presence is exactly what I was feeling while we were there. I’ve had so many moments that I want to tell Brad something the past week and a half. Finny called him “Fred” again… We were at the Studebaker building… the film festival is finally showing at Gene Siskel…the Frank Lloyd Wright house in Wilmette is decorated for Halloween… who else will care like Brad always did? I’m sending you and Beth big hugs tonight
Thanks Carli. Yeah, those little things like the Siskel…he always delighted in them.
I know this feeling well. Five of my closest friends died in 1920-22. I see them, I talk to them, I dream about them, I miss them terribly. I am 86 so I have lived on after the deaths of many of my friends and nearly all my family – in spite of their being gone, they still move in and out of my life.
Even after all those years. It’s a powerful thing.
Wow! Mike . I miss some people too. Everyone loses people the older you get.
I miss an outstanding cat we had as well.
I really miss a few people who have moved away. I still visit my parents graves in spring and /or fall each year.
Grief comes if you dare to love.
Memories are good as well as a little momento. I have my mom’s coffee cup.
Thanks for this piece.
Annette (one of Beth’s students.)
We say “May his (her) memory be a blessing.” There seem to be many interpretations of this locution, but to me it means that we are comforted by remembering fondly those in our lives who have passed and we encourage those who have experienced a loss to do so.
You’ve used that phrase before and I always find it a comfort. Thanks Hank.
Hey Mike, This is a truly beautiful remembrance of Brad, Ulrich, Janet, and others who are no longer in our lives – yet will always maintain a little place in our lives. It’s good to step back and think about the impact people have had in our lives. Thanks for the reminder to do that. Steve
I used to tell my mother everything that was going on in my life. I still want to talk to her.
“Absence is a presence.” And a constant presence, at that. Beautiful oxymoron. Thank you.
So sweet of you to include Ulrich in this lovely remembrance of lost friends, Mike. Thank you.
Lovely column, Mike.
A M E N !!!
Leave a Response