Remembrances & A Poem

Today is the one-year anniversary of my Grandad's suicide. It's a hard day for my family- especially for my Dad. The loss of a parent is something I do NOT look forward to experiencing.

November. My family does our level best to always make it to the farm in Heber Springs, Arkansas for Thanksgiving. In previous years, we would stay with my Dad's parents. We'd sleep in and watch some of the Macy's Day Parade before driving 10 minutes out to the farm for the annual family reunion with my Mom's side of the family. This year was different. My Dad's parents were gone. And while we had resigned ourselves, in recent years, to staying in a hotel- we had still always stopped by their house for a hug in the morning and knew we'd be coming back when darkness and the cold chased us from the farm. It was a terrible prospect to have no Grandparents left in that tiny little house.

The drive from our house to Heber was a long one. I was packed into the backseat next to the baby of the family. She had dozed off and I had lost myself in a book. Suddenly, she jerked awake. "You ok?" I asked. Sleepily she pushed her hair out of her face and blinked a few times. "Yeah" she answered. And then, "What day is it?" she asked me. "What do you mean?" "I mean, what day of the month is it?" she said. "Um," I thought for a minute, and then answered. "Oh" she sighed. "Bad dream?" I asked.

"Yes. I always have it about this time of the month." (within a week of the time Grandad had shot himself) She went on, "I'm running and I see Grandad and I'm trying to get to him and stop him, but I never make it!" She was on the verge of tears and my own eyes filled as I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "It's ok." I said. And she leaned her head on my shoulder and I rested mine on top of hers and we rode in silence for a while. I remembered scenes a few months earlier from the funeral- staying with people from my Grandparents' church that I barely knew, all the pity and embarrassment in peoples' faces because this funeral was a suicide- so different from dying of 'natural causes' or an 'accident'.

My baby sister's dreams and her precious memories of our beloved Grandad, cut me deeply. It hurt to know that she was still hurting- but I knew how she felt. We all were having "what if's" and "why didn't I just's" floating through our minds.

I wanted to share a poem that my sister wrote that was published recently in her college magazine (of which she is an editor). I am so proud of her!

Tale Spinner
by Sally Beard

Tissue box parade
Dead flowers, some for me
Some for the grave.
Chairs that have rocked their last
Endless visitors, empty glasses
The funeral is done
But the march goes on.
Even without you
The procession never stops.
People I've never met walk past me
Some stop and shake my hand,
Say "He was full of life"
But most won't even look me in the eye.
Are they embarrassed for me?
I don't bite.
Or maybe they're afraid of catching germs
From the tear-stained tissue I so desperately clutch.
I miss you so much.

In the cemetery, I wait
Until the last visitor has left
Then I pause beside the grave
In which lies
One who would have acknowledged my presence.
Why do funerals often turn out this way?
And now that prying eyes have gone
The tears come.
A letter. A tarp. A gun.
A hospital too, but by then
You were gone.
Four days later, here I am
Standing over you, instead of beside you.
You always told me, "Don't you change,"
But this place has changed for me.
I remember how I'd climb your knee
And you would begin to weave stories.
Some were funny, and tickled
Like a fuzzy blanket.
Some were thoughtful and comforting
Like an afghan.
Some were stories
Hard to understand
And the thread of my concentration would snap.
After all, I was only a kid.
But the best were your hugs,
Far better than a blanket
Were the arms that wrapped around me
And the husky voice that said "I love you."

You were fraying long before I noticed
And took up a rifle.
Shot a hole in the tapestry
That you spent your whole life weaving.
Tattered blankets, shattered hearts,
My world is spinning, ripping apart.
This is one story that I hate to tell,
I wish it wasn't true.
Though I continue your pattern
I'll never be as talented as you.
The blanket now has a knot
That I cannot undo;
Your death is a mystery, a mistake
That I cannot unravel.
Yes, this place- for me- has changed a lot
But the thread runs true;
You're never fully dead
Until you're forgot,
And I'll always remember you.