Posted by: Ingrid | August 13, 2008

The lostness of loss

Sometime between June and August my Dad took off his wedding band.  I saw him yesterday and didn’t notice for the first half hour and didn’t say anything after I did.  It’s not that I mind it so much, though I hear unbidden my mom talking about how he never could keep track of his ring, even the one she made specifically for him years ago in San Francisco that he then proceeded to lose.  I don’t think he’s forgotten my mom or that he didn’t love her.  I suppose I’m not even opposed to him re-marrying at some point, seeing as I’d rather the people I love go through life with someone than alone.  Maybe it was the the removal of such a familiar symbol that was disquieting.  Or the thought that every move towards and into a relationship with a spouse, child, or friend, every bit of laughter and hard times shared that brings you closer will end (seemingly, temporarily at least) with loss.  That one day either Clint or I will be slipping a ring slowly off our finger somewhere alone in an empty room.  And the time of death is every moment wrote T.S. Eliot, and that feels so true, has really always felt true to me, and never more than in the past year and a half.  I guess I wonder how to move past the intensity of that feeling.  I feel lost at the thought of fully entering into a life of continual loss, knowing full well that every bit of closeness to everyone and everything heightens the aching sense of grief in the end.  It all feels counter-intuitively painful.

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