My Lost Beloveds

Joe died Tuesday night.  For two days I was crushed with grief.

Because of Covid, I can’t travel to Pennsylvania.  There won’t be a funeral anyway.  I’m left with questions it seems too early to ask: What were the exact circumstances of his death?  Was my sister by his side?  Did she discover him gone in the morning?  Was he conscious shortly before he died, or had he slipped into a coma hours or days before? Did he know he was going to die, or did he avoid knowing up to the end?

I want to ask my sister: how do you feel?  Overwhelmed with grief? Numb? Disoriented? 

I’m ashamed to admit it: I keep wondering if she feels relieved.  It wasn’t an easy marriage.  Yet they stayed together for over 40 years.  “She depends on me,” Joe told me just this past Christmas.  It was a kind of answer to a question he’d been asking himself.  It seemed to satisfy him.

I keep trying to imagine that infinitesimal moment between a room filled with Joe’s presence—then empty.  Where did he go?  Is he still himself?
 
It hurts be alone with my grief, 1300 miles away.  My side of the family isn’t good with virtual communication.  How do I connect with them?  I was gone for a decade here and there, but I want to belong. I want them to know that I, too, feel this loss profoundly.