I recognize the feeling when all of us are in the same room. It feels a little different now, but the air exudes familiarity and a quiet comfort. My sister came to visit this past week and the room filled up with laughter, giddiness, and traces of childhood goodness. We did ordinary activities like shopping at the local mall, ate donuts for breakfast, and harassed each other over our imperfections. There was plenty of laughter, emanating from my daughter, because her love for her aunt is so pure and wholly unconditional. As soon as my sister landed at the airport, my daughter followed her, not wanting to be without her for a single moment. They played tent together, huddled underneath the blankets and watched a movie, and practiced hula-hooping in the middle of our living room.
The days of her visit felt short. And edged with a little melancholy. I remember feeling that cut of sadness when my sister, my mom and I sat around the dining table. We did not say it aloud, but we know it. Dad is missing. And when the three of us are together, I sense that we all miss him more. Because we always had dinner as a family, the dining table becomes a source of discontent. The old, worn, tea stained dining table in my childhood home speaks of political debates, arguments, fruit cake, Indian sweets of gulab jamun and halwa, and my father sitting, predictably, at the head of the table. Over two years later and for reasons I cannot completely articulate, the grief announces itself, yelling, I am eating with you again.
That, I think, is the worst part of losing someone you love.
Even immersed in the laughter and surrounded by comfort, you still feel the lines of sadness.
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
Rudri,
The pain does seep in without warning. I feel like it’s always there sometimes louder than other times. My thoughts are with you. xo
Happy that you had a great time with your sister.
Thanks Ayala for your continued comfort. I know that you understand this grief. Thank you for your words of support. xoxo
Bawling. I know how much you miss him. That last line just crushed me.
Kitch, thanks for your sentiment. It is hard and sometimes bawling is the only way I get through the grief. xoxo
I don’t think we ever stop missing lost loved ones. Hugs to you.
Thanks for the hugs Suzicate. I think missing my father is my way of keeping him alive. And I don’t ever want to stop missing him. Because that in my mind signifies abandoning him.
so sorry. so sweet.
Thanks Judy. Appreciate your words.
This is a beautiful piece, Rudri, and in it I think you hit upon one of the most devastating parts of losing someone you love: the way that their absence haunts the time and space you spend with the others who loved and lost. Thank you for sharing this reflection with us. Sending you a very big virtual hug.
Thanks for the virtual hug Kristen. Trying to compensate for that empty space becomes daunting. We especially notice that hole when the three of us are together.
Beautiful, Rudri. The void that a dearly departed has left behind can feel that much more intensified in the collective presence of loved ones.
We do our best to bring in his presence by talking about him and our past memories. Sometimes it is comforting, other times the space is filled with sadness.
Anyone who says you get over loss is lying. You find your new normal, but you don’t get over it. And why should you? We don’t want to “get over” our loved ones; we keep them with us always.
I’m thinking of you!
I agree Missy. You don’t get over loss. There is no closure. That word is something others use in order to package the grieving process. Thanks so much for your support.