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We’ve gone though all the motions. The wake is done, the funeral is behind us. Let the healing begin, right?

The funeral was pretty good as far as those things go. Dad would have really liked the priest, a socially progressive old-timer who wears caps indoors and decorates with plastic budgies. Behind the casket was a poster tracking funds raised and in front of the pulpit, a poster depicting a fetus and communicating a message on its behalf, both relics I could have done without at my father’s goddamned funeral but for better or worse, speaking on behalf of the absent Father Rafferty (or Father Lobotomy as Dad preferred to call him) who’d been politely invited not to lead this service. Father Leo was a much better choice; he gave a simple and meaningful sermon, followed us to the grave site where he allowed time for my uncle to play Amazing Grace on the bagpipes before leading a simple prayer, and declined our lunch invitation because he had others still to serve that day. Father Leo is what you would call a real winner.

So now that’s done and it’s just Mom and me (and sometimes Pete) in this big cold house. Whether I’m protecting my mother or protecting myself, I have yet to accept any offers to leave the house. I will try to get out soon, maybe tomorrow. In the meantime I’ve realized that the dissonance surrounding my accepting Dad’s death as inevitable and irreversible is essentially a feeling that to do so is to betray him. Like accepting reality is saying that his death is an acceptable outcome, like it isn’t worth fighting. And though I know this is entirely illogical, I get the feeling that I’ll be fighting it a while and that that is normal (and maybe expected).

When my dad’s mom died, I had no idea what it must be like to lose a parent or how to begin to comfort him. I sent him the best words I had with a copy of Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, noting that while critics were losing their shit over this book, I was not, historically, a big fan of her writing and certainly did not expect him to read it if he didn’t find it helpful. Of course he read it (his mind was never still) but when he returned it to me, I got the distinct impression that he was as underwhelmed by it as I had been by A Book of Common Prayer. Joan Didion for the lose, I decided, and let it rot on my bookshelf.

Until this week, when David (who is nothing if not wonderful) came up for the funeral with four things from my apartment. Camera. Pajama pants. Black shoes so adorable they could almost suck the suck right out of a funeral. And this book. I had requested it because I was losing my mind spending so much time alone with my thoughts, and all this thinking about death had triggered an existential crisis that really dampened my interest in the other books I had been working on. It was a last-ditch effort, but the book is really quite excellent and I’m sure I’ll write a lot more about it soon. I’m trying to read it quickly so that I can leave it with Mom when I go back. Didion is very honest and cold and introspective and methodical about her mental/emotional processes, and maybe not everyone tries to apply the scientific method to her personal crises, but I do, so for me her words are helpful.

I got out of bed tonight to record this thought so I’ll do that and get back to it, but the day after Dad died my aunt removed the necklace I was admiring from her own neck and fastened it around mine. Seeing this gesture, my other aunt said she had had the instinct to give me her (matching) earrings and took this as a sign to do that as well. Incidentally, both were originally gifts from my dad, and I’ve been wearing them ever since that moment. Except although the earrings are sterling silver and I’ve not experienced any metal allergies nor gone a day without earrings since I was 12, these somehow irritate my ears. Not always, but sometimes, as sometimes the necklace slips into my shirt and leaves a cold imprint on my chest that makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. I was lying awake in bed just now when the thought crossed my mind that I am wearing physical analogues of my grief. Most of the time I’m ok, and then sometimes I feel that everything is wrong.

But most of the time is a good amount of time to be doing ok, so I am thankful for that. And going back to bed.