To be read to this song.
Every year, on the anniversary of his death, my family gets together to visit my grandfather's grave. Due to the plague this year, we didn't get to go. I try to visit him as often as I can. I promised myself that if I was ever in the neighborhood, for whatever reason, I would stop and visit. I usually bring two airplane bottles of Jim Beam. That was his favorite drink. At the conclusion of each visit I would pour one into the ground on his side of the grave while drinking the other for myself. (On the left side is my grandmother's mom, and Gramps is on the far right side. Between them is my grandmother. She has recently changed her mind and wants to be cremated instead, like her daughter, my mom.)
When I got off the psych ward I wanted to see him again. But my liquor store didn't have Jim Beam. I got Old Forrester, which I like, but it still felt like a betrayal. I went to see him regardless. I told him about the psych ward. I also told him that he picked the right time to check out. He would not have liked this world now one bit. Sadly, he would have voted for Trump, and I think he would have refused to wear a mask during this plague. But I loved him more than I have loved anyone else in the world. Everything good in me is because of him. I sat there next to him. Or maybe above him. I apologized for the Old Forrester and imagined he forgave me. I poured his shot and drank mine. I told him goodbye until next time and threw the empty airplane bottles into the garbage next to the hill that forbade people from sledding on it in the winter. I started my way out of the cemetery when I saw something that made me stop.
I saw a man on a camping chair next to a grave. He looked maybe ten years older than me. He had a guitar in his lap, and he belted out the most sorrowful song I have ever heard. I stopped my car and lowered the window for the full effect. Normally I would leave the grieving to themselves, but I couldn't help myself. I looked at the grave and saw it was a woman who died in 2020. Two days ago. Born in 1969. The guitar sounded great, but it was the mournful sound of his voice that nailed me to my drivers seat like a butterfly on a display board. I don't know if you know Terry Reid, but his song sounded a lot like this. I don't cry often. It was beaten out of me at an early age. But I couldn't help but weep my eyes out as I listened to this man's ode to his dead lover. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I tried to be quiet so as not to disturb him and his grief. His song built higher and higher until his own voice cracked. He couldn't continue as he screamed her name and wept into his hands. He gave out honking tears into his palms until he realized he was being watched. He turned back to look at me. Our eyes locked, and we saw how much we were each crying. He nodded, still shaking with grief, and I nodded back, my own grief wetting my face. He turned back to his love and fell to his knees, touching the grass just outside the dirt outline from where she had been buried. I thought I should drive away then, and I couldn't stop crying until I got home.
I hate humanity. I have several friends who have apocalypse theories, and I hope at least one of them is right. We don't deserve this wonderful planet we somehow live on. None of them like it when I say that we need to fast track this shit.
But I'm not a monster. Not at heart. I find these moments in life and revel in them, no matter how hard it might be for me. There is great beauty in this world if you're looking. Fuck. You're going to think I'm a good person if I continue along these lines, but take my word for this. Sorrow brings out the best in us. Sorrow kills the worst in us. Sorrow reminds us that love is real and can move us to great moments.
If you love someone, and in this world I don't take that for granted, tell them so. I told my grandfather often. My mom, too. I wish I'd told my dad, but he was very emotionally shut off, which I suppose I inherited from him despite not knowing him for many years. And I never imagined he would die so young.
Love is the answer. I weep as I write this. Don't worry. I'm not getting soft on you. My regularly scheduled misanthropy will continue shortly. But I mean it. Find someone you love and let them know you love them.
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