Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen -
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs - between -
- Emily Dickinson
"Mr. Ross, I am sorry to inform you that your grandmother has passed away last night when she was asleep. We are so very sorry for your loss." The words pounded in his head, their echo more deafening than the silence and solitude by which he was surrounded. The suit scratched at his neck, bright and shiny leather shoes stood out among the hollow and morose atmosphere.
Despite the emptiness, he didn't know what to feel. Should he be crying out in grief and pain and despair? Should he be drowning in a vat of hard liquor or should he be indifferent? Frankly, funerals were awkward. The piercing looks of pity that follow his every move make him itch. The shitty cliché of "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" make him want to hurl. The swarm of black linen sparks a montage of vengeful acts, fury and rage secreting from the seams.
But he is frozen. His joints ache and his brain screams at him but he can't move. Because before him rests a slab of granite, with the name Katharine Ross etched ever-so-carefully into its surface. He sees her smile as he talks animatedly to her; smells freshly baked chocolate chip cookies as he comes home from school. The comforting lilac scent that always graced her. And she is gone.
Suddenly his legs are running faster than they ever have, never stopping despite the pain in his lungs. He runs until he can go no further and he stops on the side of a two-lane road, bending over his knees to catch his breath. A small chuckle escapes his lips and a wide, toothy grin cracks over his face as he begins laughing. His ribs ache and his abdominals are tense but he throws his head back with his closed eyes spreads his arms wide and shatters. A tear rolls down his cheek and sobs overtake his breath.
And then it's over. And he remembers. It feels heavy in his left breast pocket as his mind recalls every single detail. HIs brain choreographs a series of fluid movements and suddenly his hand is grasping a piece of parchment enclosed in a single envelope entitled "My Dearest Michael." His fingers slide under the wax seal and his grandmother's words come alive before his blue eyes.
Michael James Ross-
I love you. I couldn't have asked for a better grandson than you and I will be forever thankful. However, it is my time to go. I have lived for so many years; years filled with joy and light and sorrow and tears. But I will die without regrets and you will live a long and healthy life. You will grieve and you will be alive. That is all I ask of you: live.
I have nothing material of mine to leave you, but there is something that I held back from you since you were eight years old. I never wanted to give it to you when I was alive. I wanted you to discover it for yourself. Everything is for you. It always has been and it always will
Enjoy your life. If not for yourself than for me and your father and your mother.
Grammy
P.S. Silver: Montgomery Storage Facility. Bronze: Jensen Bank
He sighed in pain and exasperation. Why was everything so confusing? Then something silver and bronze glinted on the oil-stained pavement. Keys. A standard silver key and a small bronze key.
"Everything is for you."
Harvey walked beside him as the man led them through the labyrinth of bright orange, garage-like doors. The abruptly stop at a door with the number 42 painted in black directly in the middle of the door. He chuckled darkly under his breath. The meaning of life. Harvey thanked the man as he left and Mike barely registered Harvey opening the door. The loud clangs of the door reverberated through Mike's whole body. His hands trembled something fierce against the denim of his well-worn jeans and he was again frozen. He stared blindly at what laid before him: boxes. Boxes upon boxes with his grandmother's scroll labeling what lay inside each dreadful and monotonous cubes of god-awful brown. He was going to suffocate.
A firm hand tugged on his arm and pulled him inside. Harvey's strong body was pushed up against his and he whispered softly, his breath caressing his ear. "Breathe." He inhaled oxygen and expelled carbon dioxide. And he was free. Everything relaxed and he was breathing. Alive. He cautiously looked around the room, his Converse loud against the concrete floor as he paced.
Hastily written words in a Marks-A-Lot permanent marker stood out in a sea of horrid brown. Music Collection. His legs guided him to the box. He noticed, or rather his body did, a thick layer of dust coating the top. The cardboard was carefully opened and inside were 45 of many, many vinyl records. His fingers danced through the various titles and all he could think was one melancholy thought. Dad.
Harvey had wandered over to see what Mike was looking at and detected the hint of a smile paint his lips. His heart soared at the little uptake of flesh, the various movements of muscle that comprised such a beautiful sight. More boxes that surrounded Mike held the same label as the one he was currently perusing. He opened up a few and internally scoffed at this music, but his face was the epitome of indifference. The kid didn't need any more shit in his life.
Mike's silent happiness had radiated from Mike to Harvey and he looked up to find Mike staring intently at a singular record. He knew Mike's mind wasn't here, but elsewhere, in the depths of his past. A low hum arose from Mike and he recognized the tune instantly: "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel, the titular track of the record in Mike's delicate hands.
"My dad was a huge music fan," Mike's voice pierced the room. "He loved it. Every weekend he would take me to his favorite record store and I would play with my dad's best friend, the manager of the shop. And my dad would get great deals on records. But this album was by far his favorite out of everything he owned. He would play it constantly. It was one of the few things my dad and I could really connect with.
"My first memory is of him singing to me right before bed and it was 'Bridge Over Troubled Water.' He had a beautiful voice. He once told me if he hadn't become a lawyer, he would've become a musician. It was the only song he would ever sing to me at bedtime, and it was the only one I requested. As I grew up, he sang it less and less because I was a 'big kid' and big kids didn't have their father's sing them to sleep. But on special occasions, or if I was being extra stubborn, he would sing for me.
"The last time he sang for me was on the day he died. My parents were going to a party and I couldn't go. My grandmother was looking after me and my parents tucked me in before they left. Because it was the night before my birthday, my dad agreed to sing it to me. When he came in before he left, I asked him if he didn't love me because I wasn't the son he wanted and didn't do the things he wanted me to do. And then he did something I never expected him to do. He cried. I was so fucking scared because he was the strongest man I knew.
"He bent down next to me and swallowed me in his arms. He told me that he was sorry, so sorry for ever making me think that. He told me he loved me no matter what and he would love me unconditionally, forever and ever. It was within the embrace of his arms and in the crevice of his neck I meekly whispered that I loved him, too. And then he was singing me to sleep with the magnificent words of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. I was asleep when they left.
"Next thing, I know I am being awoken by my grandmother at midnight and every muscle in her body was shaking. Her voice trembled as she struggled to inform me that there was a car accident and that my parents had died. It wasn't until that moment that I fully grasped what Paul Simon wrote in that song. 'Like a bridge over troubled water/ I will lay me down.' I never fully grieved over my parents' death. And I never cried once. But I avoided this song from that day onwards. I haven't heard it in twenty years. I don't know if I ever want to hear it again. But all I know is that my dad loved it. And I loved my dad. And my dad loved me."
His chest ached as he finished his story. He never turned back to look at Harvey. He just stared at the pictures of the two men that changed his life.
Eventually every box was searched and packed into an SUV they borrowed from Ray. Harvey had driven to Jensen Bank where Mike discovered two letters in a safety deposit box, both addressed to Mike in handwriting that, no doubt, haunted him. They currently rested forgotten in the depths of a box labeled miscellaneous. They arrived at Harvey's apartment, or more appropriately, their apartment.
Slowly but surely the boxes were lugged upstairs and organized alphabetically in the living room. Mike disappeared into the kitchen before returning with a bottle of scotch.
"Okay. I'm ready." Every item was inspected and Mike was able to tell a story for each one. Sometimes he would laugh about the memories that appeared in his mind, or he would talk with an empty voice, which would give Harvey nightmares, about some of the difficult parts of his past. Subsequently, it took many hours to sort through everything. But by the end, the bottle was half gone (or half full or twice the size it needs to be) and Mike was once again delicately holding the precious record. He wordlessly stood up, stumbling along the way, and walked to the record player, which lay next to the new resident of the living room media center from Ikea, a framed picture of his parents. He placed the record on the turntable and deftly placed the needle on the vinyl.
The haunting echo of the piano danced around the room and Mike froze. Art Garfunkel's voice caressed Mike's brain. "When you're weary/ feeling small/ when tears are in your eyes/ I will dry them all." Mike's knees buckled and he collapsed on the carpet. Everything weighed down and his heart felt heavy in his ribcage. Art Garfunkel floated away as his father's baritone voice swarmed his very being. He was suddenly eight years old again, in his bed with his head resting on his father's lap and a large hand stroking his blonde, unruly hair. The softness of the tuxedo fabric warmed his cheek and small streaks of snot decorated his father's pant leg.
But his father didn't care. Because Mike loved him. And he loved Mike.
Tears fell from his eyes down his cheeks and off of his jaw. It was too much. He curled onto the floor in a fetal position and cried. He mourned his grandmother and he mourned his spectacular mother and he mourned his stern but loving father. For the first time in twenty years, he could grieve. And it felt remarkable.
He know knew what to feel and he knew what would help him.
After all, like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind.
A/N: Thank you for reading. I will write a few companion pieces to this, but this is something that was bugging me. I am a huge Simon & Garfunkel fan and I just finished watching the documentary The Making of Bridge Over Troubled Water, and I couldn't help but think of Mike and his parents.
Thank you again and please review! Best Wishes and DFTBA!