Hello, Goodbye.

Afraid [uh-freyd], adj: filled with fear or apprehension; filled with concern or regret over an unwanted situation

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of spiders and dolls and varicose veins. Portable toilets, hangnails, commitment. Dying alone. Living alone. Deadlines. I’m afraid of you, and myself and homeless people who talk to me or themselves. Talk to the demons in their heads, or maybe the demons in mine.

I’m afraid of dark. Of darkness.

I’m afraid of leaving, and afraid I’ll never leave. Afraid that even if I leave everything will still be the same. I’m afraid of having nothing to say. I’m afraid to say what needs to be said. I’m afraid I’ll say what needs to be said and nobody will listen, or everybody will listen and blame me for their wasted time.

I am afraid of deep water and losing my loved ones. Losing my mind. I’m afraid of the silences between our words and the meanings we attribute to them. I’m afraid of growing old, of dying old. I’m afraid of the truth, and even more afraid of the lies. How easily they replace reality.

Like when my barista asks how my day is going, do I tell the truth? That I found out my grandmother is dying and my world feels somehow smaller and also askew, like I’m looking at myself down a long hallway of crooked mirrors. That I’m having a hard time breathing because my jaw is clenched tight around the flow of memories swelling into my throat. Or do I smile, say things are fine. They’re just fine. They’re fine or they will be. There’s a thin line between a lie and a half-truth. Because things have to be fine eventually, right? Or else what’s the point?

I’m analyzing my reaction to loss because I have yet to experience it, holding it at arms’ length, studying. Because I am afraid. I am afraid of feeling grief and even more afraid of an inability to experience it. We expect devastation to accompany tragedy and there is a comforting quality to the natural progression of our emotions. I expected a pure surge of emotion. Instead I’m wrestling with contradictions and tensions, each emotional note feeding off the others until the crescendo crashes over my head and I’m gasping in a community rose garden, my two hands holding each other for stability.

I don’t know how to do this, because I’ve never done it before.

Two nights ago I had a dream about my grandmother. I woke up knowing I should call her. We’ve talked once in the last two years. I called her Christmas morning on the 45 minute drive from my family’s home to my afternoon shift at work. I chose to call her then because I had a legitimate exit route when the time came to end our conversation. I love my grandmother, but she can be hard to please, hard to communicate with. I woke up two days ago knowing I needed to call her, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just got wrapped up in my own head I suppose. Caught in my own simple web of problems or accomplishments.

I dreamed about bee stings, a friend I haven’t met and my grandmother. I dreamed about my body covered in open, weeping stings. I dreamed about being sewn back together, the pain inherent in any sort of healing. I don’t know why she was there. I’m not even sure she was there. Just the idea of her, solid as Coca-Cola collectible bottles and rose gardens.

My grandmother is fresh nectarines from roadside fruit stands. My grandmother is country music, Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks. She is Elvis Presley collectors-edition plates. She is summer vacation and “No TV after 6 on the Sabbath”. My grandmother is roller blading; she is sneaking paper bags into movie theaters to take advantage of large popcorn refills. She is doing the best with what you’ve got. And now she is lung cancer.

So my parents will buy me a ticket, I’ll put myself on a plane and fly to California. To say hello, goodbye. And I am afraid, because today goodbye seems so much bigger than ever before.

If you give me a little time

to straighten out my mind

Things will be all right. All right.

All my love.

-b