My life is not this steeply sloping hour
Through which you see me hasten on.
I am a tree standing before my background
I am the rest between two notes
That harmonize only reluctantly:
For death wants to become the loudest tone—
But in the dark interval they reconcile
Tremblingly, and get along.
And the beauty of the song goes on.
My dad passed away last November, and as fate had it scripted, I was the only one who happened to be near him in the odd hours of the night when his frail body that has fought a fierce battle against the looming weight of death gave away its last grip, and he heaved his final breath. I remember feeling his warm hands encircled within my fingers turning cold as ice, so much that the coldness began to spread to my limbs, thighs, waist, and to my heart. And it stuns me that another a November has come and the world rushes to mark the one year death anniversary for my dad when I am still there, near him, holding his hands, crying out in vain, and requesting him repeatedly to come alive, one more time. Just one more time.
Time does not heal. Rather it boxes the memory to be left untouched and it makes me throw myself to my routines. It asks me to laugh, smile, and spread love when the memories keep stored up behind the rumbling business of every day, in silence, while the nights act as a secret vault where I would reopen the memories to live in them and be with the man I love dearly. Just one more time.
In the initial days after the passing of my dad, I always believed that the engulfing grief would just dissolve as days go by. That's what I am told. "You keep learning. You keep inventing yourself. Move on. You will forget all these". Consolations, endearings, sweet notes, hugs come with the single message that somehow the fact of the death would just vanish away and one day I would return back to my normal life. I believed in all the consolations. But, grief works differently. It changes its terms, shapes, forms. And, it remains. The absence of the loved one strikes you when you least expect it. You might be prepared to meet the life's grand challenges without them; the long hard ones. But where would you turn to when life throws at you the pencil lines drawn by them on the sides of a book? Or when you realize that the way you carry your coffee mug is as same as the man who made you? Or those long night you remain wide awake because you want to share something so impersonal as a poem with a man whom you are sure would love it as much as you do?
Grief is an island. You belong there as its sole citizen. Even those who love you so much may not know what you suffer. Because what you lost upon the death of someone you love is something so precious, private, and an invisible space shared by two individuals in their own world. An inch towards the grave yet miles away from reaching your loved ones again. That's grief. At least to me.
After my dad's death, I read a lot to negate the fact of facing anything sad or would bring back my reality stark in front of me. I avoided books, movies, songs that would push me into a whirl of sadness. I laughed, dressed well, worked, traveled across boundaries. But, a year after, I am again here at the point where I started. But this time with the book of Rilke in hand.
Of all the writers I read, Rilke is the one who understands loss and gives me words that I have lost. The language of grief is so serenely mute that sometimes even the one who survives the loss cannot understand what happens to them because articulation fails. The identification of the process of grief, the narration of its process, acknowledging the strangeness, the forever alteration left by death on life are never put in words or we don't consume them when we are busy living otherwise. Rilke draws the picture of grief here. He gives the shades it's missing, draws a fair identification of its boundaries (and acknowledges it's boundness), takes away the strangeness surrounding the most embarrassing topic - death, and most importantly he makes grief life-affirming.
'Liberation' is the word that came to my mind after I finished reading this book. Liberation not from the grief or the long mourning for my dad, but rather I have at last found a refuge to take shelter. And, this refuge is neither dogmatic as religion or bumptious as the move-on attitude or sentimental in its aggregation of values. Rilke's wisdom asks us to take life in all its dimensions - in its sadness, grief, loss, death - so that life could be lived in depth and not grassed on the tip of its surface. As he aptly puts in, "Death is the highest mark etched at the vessel's rim; we are full whenever we reach it, and being full means (for us) a feeling of heaviness, that something is difficult.....that's all."
The beauty of the book lies in the fact that it invents a language to the grief and sometimes reinvents a different perception to deal with it, face to face, just as we dare deal with our lives. One of the most rewarding reads I have done in recent times. A book that has helped me find words to assuage a troubled heart and a mind that misses someone so much. Much grateful.