It’s 8 AM on Sunday. There’s no godly reason for me to be awake, no pastor waiting to see me fill that empty spot in my usual pew. No usual pew to speak of.

These days the only time I’m in church is in my dreams… drifting through bouts of lucidity. Reduced to backdrops generated by my imagination, retro fitting places I’ve actually been and creating a stage for my deepest fears, loves and fantasies to play out for this one woman audience.

The last dream before waking was odd. It was my Aunt Beth’s funeral and strangers, figments of my imagination or perhaps people I had passed on the street yesterday, were talking about Beth, as if they knew her and criticizing my father’s awkward eulogy where he spoke about wood and quoted what I can only imagine to be obscure and unrelated scripture passages. I know, weird.

When I wake, those tears that had patiently been waiting for release gently flow down my cheek. Warm, dynamic, tragic… possessing all of the qualities of their muse: the passing of a woman who had more life to live. More parties to attend… more dance floors to play on… more stories to re-tell… more beaches to walk down… just more.

My grief is hollow and empty, complete with echo. In my head, there’s a photo album of the wedding I’ll have once my mystery groom sees fit to introduce himself. There are sound bites and images I’ve set aside in the recesses of my brain: my dad wells up with tears as we dance to some sappy song, my brother sings ‘Ave Maria’ in a church with lovely stained glass windows, a brass quintet plays…

…and Aunt Beth is dancing at the reception. Heating the place up… breathing life into the party. Lending her spirit to relatives and friends who might otherwise be sitting at their table, contemplating the cleanliness of the leftover cutlery in front of them. Instead, in my vision they are on the dance floor with that vibrant woman. Time goes by quickly ‘cause that’s how it is when you’re having fun.

I mourn that the loss of a moment that never had the chance to happen. Each time I tell someone of my aunt’s recent death I am asked, “Were you close?”, I feel a lump in my throat. In a practical-every-day-life type of way… no. And I regret that, but can’t quite figure out how to explain that her existence was important to me nonetheless.

The thought that she was in my future brought me unexamined comfort. Comfort that I took for granted until shocked to my senses, staring helplessly into the void left by this cosmic injury. The girth around my waist (10 pounds, thank you) is the only memorial I’ve been able to erect and sublimating grief through food consumption falls short of being a fitting tribute. Now for the real challenge… moving on and making peace with the aftermath of abrupt changes and unjust circumstances that are part of everyday life.

Tags: food consumption