If People Are the Same, Why is the World Different?

November 23, 2012 — Pat Bertram

This world of the early twenty-first century seems completely different from the world of fifty years ago, and for some reason yesterday, that struck me as odd. Except for the accoutrements of our lives, such as computers and clothes, why would things be different? Most people want the same things now as they wanted then — a safe world for their children to grow up in, a degree of comfort and security and happiness, a chance to succeed either in their chosen career or in their daily lives, freedom to live the best way they know how. So why is life today so different from what it used to be?

Admittedly, those were not the halcyon days people remember them as being. There was strong prejudice in certain areas in the United States, though not all people or neighborhoods or cities participated in the prejudice against blacks, woman, gays. There did seem to be restrictions against what women could accomplish, though women who wanted to accomplish big things often managed to succeed anyway. But most women thought they had it good, staying at home, taking care of their husbands and children. Is it any better today when women are forced by circumstances or custom to work?

People are still basically the same, yet now married couples seem to be unable to find a way to stay together. Back then, divorce was rare, and now it is all too common. The number of single parent homes are increasing. Children are being shuffled between parents. Some children have too few parents, and some have too many. You’d think that with the fluidity of life today that people would be more accepting of each other, but our society is still pigeonholing both men and women, forcing them into roles they might not want. We seem to always be categorizing people, foisting labels on them, making them conform to fashionable ideas and attitudes. And we seem to be even more polarized now than ever before, whether religion or politics, with less tolerance for opposing points of view.

Looking back on those long ago days of the mid-twentieth century, it seems a completely different world. Children played in the streets, walked to and from school, rode their bikes to distant neighborhoods, ran errands for their mothers, walked to the park for pick-up games. Were things safer then? Or was it simply that people were not bombarded with images of peril on TV and the internet and so did not know how unsafe they were? No matter how graphic newspaper stories and photos were, no matter how detailed radio news became, they were still static words and images, without the horror that today is thrust into our lives in full color, making us fearful for our safety.

If things were safer then, and it isn’t an illusion of nostalgia, then why were things safer? As I mentioned, people want now what they wanted then. Is it simply that there are more people in the world? Is it that the neighborhood schools have been consolidated into district schools so that the neighborhood is no longer a separate entity? Is it that we move more frequently now so we ever gets to know our neighbors? Are we less trusting, perhaps, and if so, why? Does it make a difference that someone isn’t waiting at home when kids get home from school? Or maybe it’s that no one is home during the day and so whole neighborhoods are deserted, giving us a feeling of being ungrounded? Is it that two salaries or two jobs are necessary to maintain the same level of comfort that one mediocre salary could handle back then? If so, why is that? Is it simply inflation (or perhaps a conspiracy to kill the middle class as some people believe) or is it that more things are necessary now, that a comfortable life today needs more equipment than a comfortable life fifty years ago?

There used to be one car per family, one television, one telephone. (Some families had two of each, of course, but most only had one.) Now each person in each family seems to have their own mode of transportation, their own television, their own telephone, their own computer. Games were simple back then, too — a bat and ball, board games, jigsaw puzzles — and you needed someone to play with. Now expensive game consoles take the place of neighborhood companions.  After school activities seem more structured now, though family life seems less structured — families eating meals together at a set time used to be the norm and now is a special occasion. But then, families themselves are different.

I don’t know if any of this is important or if it means anything. Whatever once was no longer exists, and we can only live in the world of today, but it does seem strange to me that despite people’s goals remaining the same, the world has changed so much.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

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Giving Thanks for Words

November 22, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Every day I find something to be grateful for, even if it’s only that the sun is shining,  that I once had a great love, that I have open spaces to explore (both in my head and in the world). Even when all else seemed bleak these past thirty-one months since the death of my life mate/soul mate, even when I had no hope, there was always something to be grateful for (most often that he was no longer suffering), so I don’t need to set aside a special day of thanksgiving.

Still, during this season of giving thanks, there is something I am especially grateful for, something worth celebrating . . . words.

Words convey thoughts, ideas, hopes from one person to another. They connect us from continent to continent, enabling us to bond with like-minded people all around the world. I have exchanged words — and friendship — with people from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the Nederlands, India. And for this I am grateful.

Words allow us to read and to write, to find entertainment and enlightenment in worlds created out of nothing but letters strung together. Words allow a story, concocted in one mind, to come to full realization in another. For most of my life, these worlds of words have been my life, or at least a major part of it. Now that I too am a world-creator, I am grateful for the words with which I build my stories.

Words give comfort, especially when distance (either geographic or emotional) does not allow a touch of commiseration. I am especially grateful for all the words of encouragement you (the readers of this blog) have given me during my time of grief, words that touched me. I hope some of my words touched you.

Words mean hope. With words, there is always the hope that we will be able to come to an understanding of each other, and perhaps find peace. (Of course, people would have to shut up long enough to listen to each other’s words; one-way words cause conflict and confusion.)

Words mean community and continuity. Words, both spoken and written, presuppose that there is someone to listen, and that is community. Telling our his-stories and her-stories to each other creates both community and continuity. They tell us who we were, who we are, and who we hope to become.

If there were no one to hear our words, if we existed solely in ourselves, we’d still need words to communicate our feelings and ideas to ourselves. This ability to put our thoughts into words gives us the power to know ourselves and to understand greater truths.

So this week, whether you celebrate the U.S. Thanksgiving or not, stop for a moment to give thanks for words. They are we.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

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A Romance with Books

November 17, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I watched the 1987 movie 84 Charing Cross Road yesterday, and it struck me as particularly poignant considering the current state of the book business. Some people call this movie a romance, though basically, the relationship between Helene Hanff and Frank Doel is little more than a business relationship. The true romance is Helene’s love of books — not just the content of the books, but the volumes themselves.

With the advent of Kindles, Nooks, Palm Pilots, IPads and other reading devices, bound books seem to be valued less and less. Ebook readers sneer at those who profess to love the smell of the book and the feel of the pages, but the truth is, there is a mystique about a printed volume. It exists as a thing separate from its words. You can hold the tome in your hands, riffle the pages, sample a word here and there. There is a tactile connection between reader and story, linking the two parties in a very physical way.

You love your ereader. I get that. I understand you love the ease of being able to cart around an entire library of downloaded stories and novels for a minimal cost. I understand that ereaders, with their ability to zoom in (or do I mean out?) and make the words larger for those with vision problems allow people to keep reading long after their eyes have given up on them. I also understand that such reading devices are the wave of the future.

But . . . here’s my dirty little secret. (Not much in the way of dirty little secrets, I admit, but it’s the only one I have.) I don’t own an ereading device, and I have no intention of getting one until I am forced to. For me, reading has always been a Zen-like experience where I become the book. Not the story. The book. My eyes would be focused on the page. One hand would be grasping the book while the other turned the page, quite mindlessly, I might add. The book might be resting on sternum or stomach, depending on my position. And the story osmosed through my body and into my soul without referencing the words.

For most of my life, I was a constant reader. That’s all I wanted to do, so for several years I did temp work to give myself maximum amount of time to read. To feed my habit, I would take out stacks of books from the library and buy bagfuls of new and used books. Often, I would pass the purchased books on to my mother. One time, I included Oh, God in a stack of books I gave her, and the language appalled her. I shrugged it off, saying I didn’t notice. That really upset her. “I don’t know which is worse,” she said, “that you would be so blasé as not to be bothered by the words, or so naïve as to not know what they mean.”

I tried to explain to her that I didn’t read words, but that upset her even more. I suppose it does sound weird, but it’s the truth. At least, it used to be. As I got older and my eyes weaker, the osmosis didn’t work as well, and I had to start reading words. I did not like that at all! Oddly, my eyesight has changed, and I now have perfect vision about nine inches from my eyes, (though I can’t see beyond that) so I can do the Zen reading thing again, but since I have a hard time finding non-trivial stories to osmose with, I don’t read much any more. (I used to feel guilty at having “wasted” my life reading, but now I’m glad I did.)

Anyway, the point is that while some people love their reading devices, others don’t seem to find the relationship rewarding, and I bet Helene Hanff would have been such a one. All those books she ordered from 84 Charing Cross Road are probably now available free from Google books (because really, who among us except die-hard literature students like Helene would pay to read the unabridged prose of John Dunne), but reading the books on a Kindle wouldn’t be the same for her as reading a leather-bound book with gilt edging. And, although my reading tastes are much more plebian than hers, reading on a device wouldn’t be the same for me, either. I don’t see myself having a Zen-like experience with a Nook or a Kindle.

The lesson of this movie is that it’s important to do things when you can, because one day it will be too late. Helen supposedly carried on a great friendship with Frank — or at least with the bookstore where he worked — but she never once called him, never once sprung for a ticket to London until after the store closed for good. (I’m not giving away any spoilers — the movie begins with her visiting the empty store.) And so it was with me and my romance with books. If I hadn’t wasted my youth reading but waited until now to carry on my romance with books, the romance would have been over before it had even begun.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

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35,000 Days and Counting

November 8, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Just by chance I discovered that in a couple of weeks my father will be 35,000 days old. Such an astonishing number of days should not go unacknowledged, so I’ve been trying to figure out various ways of illustrating that vast number of days.

I thought of giving him a jar of 35,000 bits of confetti in recognition of his days, but confetti comes in ounce packages, and I am not about to count out 35,000 pieces of anything. Can you imagine counting out 34,895 and then losing your place? Admittedly, I could count what was in one package and extrapolate from that how many packages I’d need, but still, there are a lot of pieces in those bags, and anyway, confetti has no significance to his life.

Perhaps give him 35,000 pennies? But 35,000 pennies would be 700 rolls, cost $350.00, and would weigh 210 pounds.

Perhaps licorice jelly beans? Considering that there are approximately 400 Jelly Belly jelly beans in a pound, I would need almost 88 pounds and at 8 dollars per pound, they would cost $704. Freight, however, would be free.

Perhaps personalized M&Ms? But 35,000 of them would cost more than $1,725, excluding freight. And anyway, they would just go to waste. He hates M&Ms.

He does like Snickers bars, so I considered sending him 35,000 calories of the candy, but that would be 125 bars. Since he’s almost 96 years old, it would take him the rest of his life to eat that many candy bars, and they would get stale long before then.

Perhaps 35 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles? But his fingers don’t work that well to manipulate those pieces, his eyesight is bad, and he never liked doing jigsaw puzzles. (Now, if my mother were still alive, I could get them for him and let her work them.)

In the end, I decided to print and cut out 35,000 copies of his initials, each one representing a day on this earth. Will take me about 12 hours to cut all of those bits of paper, but what the heck. It’s a wonderfully symbolic gesture.

I’ll also decorate the house, or at least his breakfast nook, to surprise him. (I haven’t mentioned the 35,000 days date to him, and if any of my siblings ruin the surprise, I will never forgive them.)

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

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Is it Your Business What Others Think of You?

October 17, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Occasionally I see a saying that seems to bring a moment of enlightenment, but the more I see it, the murkier its truth becomes. And so it is with this little gem: What others think of you is none of your business.

To a certain extent, the saying is true. You can’t live your live trying to figure out what others think of you and then work your life around their opinions. You have to consider what you think of you and live your life accordingly. This also works in reverse — what you think of someone is none of their business. So often, we feel the need to tell others what we think of them — simply to help them, of course — but if what we think of them is none of their business, we might as well keep our opinions to ourselves. (And perhaps save a friendship in the process.)

But . . . (by now, I’m sure you’ve read enough of my blog to know there is always a but somewhere in my posts.)

What a child thinks of his parents is often a key to his emotional health, so what the child thinks of his parents is definitely the parents’ business. If the child is overly attached to his parents or is angry at them for no apparent reason, the child could be having emotional problems. On the other hand, if the child is embarrassed by his parents (beyond normal bounds) or if the child finds it hard to be around them for some reason, maybe the parents are the ones with the problem.

If you are in a romantic relationship, a marriage, or some other long-term coupling, what your loved one thinks of you is definitely your business. If you think yours is a love match and the other thinks it’s a lust match, you need to know that so you can make informed decisions about your future. If your husband no longer loves you and has developed a roving eye, you certainly need to know how he feels about you so you take appropriate actions, such as getting couple’s therapy. (Unless, of course, you prefer not knowing.) If you’re in a relationship and are ready “for the next level” (whatever that is), and your partner in the relationship wants only your money, you need to know the truth before things go to far.

And of course, if your neighbor hates you enough to want to kill you, that most certainly is your business.

There must be many other examples where this particular saying doesn’t pertain, but you get the point: sometimes a clever message is simply clever and not a great truth.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+

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The Wonder of Us

October 9, 2012 — Pat Bertram

A friend told me that she almost died in her early twenties. She said she thought she had been spared because one of her as yet unborn offspring (my word, not hers) or their offspring would do something vital. Perhaps, for example, her young granddaughter will grow up to be president. (Frankly, I think she shouldn’t set her sights so low.) It made me sad that she thought her importance to the world lay not in herself, but in her grandchildren, and it got me to thinking about what makes us important.

Most of us will never be known outside of our circle of family and friends, will never even have fifteen minutes of fame. Most of us will never change the world or make an earthshaking discovery. Most of us will never be wildly successful, though many of us will be quietly successful — at living, if nothing else. Most of us will never satisfy all our dreams, though we will be mostly satisfied with the dreams that do come true. In other words, in the eyes of the world, most of us will never be important.

And yet . . .

We unimportant folks are people of peace. We don’t start wars, don’t start fights, and seldom start arguments. We give more than we take. We nurture more than we smother, help more than hinder, solve more problems than we generate. We create more than we destroy. We try to do the right thing, though we don’t always know what that might be. We appreciate more than we denigrate. We are often kind and seldom mean. We usually give credit where credit is due and don’t demand more credit than we deserve. We are seldom prejudiced, and if we are, we never let our bias get in the way of how we treat others. We are grateful more than we are regretful.

We value a rich life more than we value a life of riches. We care for this world and for the creatures that depend on it. We feast on beauty, though we might not always agree on what is beautiful. (Besides sunsets. We all see the beauty in sunsets. Not one of us has ever looked at a sunset and said, “oh, how hideous.”)

We love more than we hate.

So, even though most of us will never be considered important, we are probably more important to the world than those who are considered important. And that is the wonder of us.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”

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No One to Do Nothing With

October 2, 2012 — Pat Bertram

When my life mate/soul mate/best friend died two and a half years ago, people often compared my loss to the death of a pet or an aged grandparent or a sibling (all the while snug in the comfort of their own marriages). Some people compared my loss to their divorce. A couple of people even mystified me by comparing my loss to their struggles with alcoholism. Although these comparisons seemed insensitive at the time (I had previously lost both a sibling and my mother, and those losses in no way resembled what I felt after my soul mate died), I now understand people were reaching out to me, trying to comprehend my grief and to put it into a context they could understand.

The wound where his presence was ripped from my soul no longer gapes as widely; the feeling of his total goneness doesn’t haunt me quite so much; the anguish and physical distress has ebbed to an underlying sadness. This easing of grief has unmasked more subtle feelings of loss, and suddenly I can see how this itch to see him once more is comparable to the struggles of an alcoholic. We both  have to live — forever —with a deep craving that can never be satisfied, both have an empty feeling that can never be filled, and we both live in a world where others routinely enjoy what we can’t. (Like all comparisons, this one falls short since those who give up drink have to do so from sheer force of will, while my lack is simply a result of fate.)

I hadn’t realized until after he was gone how much I counted on his very presence.

The sound of his voice filled my ears and my mind. From the moment we met until the cancer metastasized into his brain, we talked and talked and talked. We talked about everything — history, books, health, truth, all the many and various things we researched over the years. Though we said everything we needed to say, I still wish for one more word from him.

During silent times, his smiles nourished my soul. Even at the end, in his moments of lucidity before either the pain or the morphine swept him away, he still managed to smile at me. And oh, how I wish for one more smile.

A couple of days ago I wrote about my growing soul hunger, an indefinable need his presence had once satisfied, and now I wonder if that need is . . . nothing. Although we worked and played and talked for more than three decades , we often did nothing together. Were just there, a presence in each other’s lives. As his dying became the focus of our lives, and we couldn’t do much of anything together, not even carry on a conversation, we could still do nothing together, and we often did.

Although I am finding others to fill some of the roles he played in my life, this last is the role no one can fill. I have people to do things with, but I have no one to do nothing with. And, like an alcoholic, the one thing I need is the one thing I can’t have. He was a presence in my life first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. He was a presence in the kitchen when we fixed meals together. He was a presence when we watched movies or ran errands or did chores. He was a presence in my thoughts — because we had spent so much time together, discussing history and current events, our ideas developed in tandem. And we didn’t have to explain ourselves or our state of affairs — we were there and saw the effects life had on the other.

I understand that this sort of companionship is rare, and I feel greedy and perhaps insensitive for even mentioning the lack of his presence in my life, but this is my truth, my experience, my sorrow. No matter how much I wish things were different, these circumstances will never change, but I will. I am becoming more accepting of my situation, more respectful of the soul hunger, more grateful for what I once had. It’s possible someday I will even get used to having no one to do nothing with.

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Grief: The Great Yearning — Day 197

September 29, 2012 — Pat Bertram

During the first horrendous months after the death of my life mate/soul mate/best friend, I was so incredibly lost that sometimes the only way I could deal with the confusion was to write a letter to him in an effort to feel connected. I still have episodes of sadness, but I haven’t experienced that total anguish in a long time. Still, I miss him, yearn to go home to him, worry about him. Although this letter was written two years ago, much of it holds true today.

–

Dear J,

It’s been a while since I’ve written, but I’ve been thinking about you. Are you glad you’re dead? You said you were ready to die, to be done with your suffering, yet at the very end you seemed reluctant to go.

Despite all the problems with your restlessness and the disorientation from the drugs, I wasn’t ready for you to leave me. I still am not. Nor do I want to go back to where we were that last year, waiting for you to die. We were both so miserable, but honestly, this is even worse. I can live without you. The problem is, I don’t want to, and I don’t see why I have to.

I want to come home. Please, can I come home? I have a good place to stay, but without you, I feel homeless. Sometimes I watch movies from your collection and imagine you’re watching with me, but that makes me cry because I know you’re not here. Your ashes are, but you’re not.

I broke a cup today, one more thing gone out of the life we shared. Our stuff is going to break, wear out, get used up. I’ll replace some of it, add new things, write new books, and it will dilute what we shared. Is there going to be anything left of “us”? I feel uncomfortable in this new skin, this new life, as if it’s not mine. As if I’m wearing clothes too big and too small all at the same time.

There’s so much I hate about your being gone — hate it for me and hate it for you. It might be easier if I knew you were glad to be dead, but so far you’ve been mum about your situation. Just one more thing to hate — the silence of the grave. (Well, the silence of the funerary urn.)

Adios, compadre. If you get a chance, let me know you’re okay.

***

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An Incidental Tourist

September 5, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I’ve watched thousands of movies over the years, but I’ve never considered myself a fan so much as a student. I don’t gush over movie stars, though I have paid attention to how they act, the way they deliver their lines, and the characters they play. I’ve never felt any desire to see places where movies were filmed, such as the field from The Field of Dreams. (In truth, I don’t understand the attraction. The field in Iowa is not a magical field as it was portrayed in the movie. It is simply a prosaic place where the magic of filmmaking once happened.)

Still, quite incidentally during my travels the past couple of years, I’ve seen several places made famous by movies: Monument Valley, Ridgeway (where much of True Grit was filmed), the LaBrea tarpits, Bagdad Cafe, the house where Sam Baldwin lived in Sleepless in Seattle, and the Bradbury Building. I’m sure I’ve passed by dozens of other film-famous settings without being aware of their significance, so it’s amazing to me that I recognized as many places as I did.

One of the hardest things about having lost to death the person connecting me to life is that when I see such places, I can’t tell him what I have seen. He was the one I watched all those movies with, and he would have appreciated seeing those settings way more than I did. The irony is that when he was alive, we couldn’t travel due to his health, so it’s only his death that has brought the world to me (or do I mean me to the world?).

One movie he enjoyed was Wolf, and he was especially taken with the office building where Will Randall worked.  On a recent excursion to downtown LA, I stopped in to see the Bradbury Building, which had been described as an architectural marvel, and there it was — the office building from Wolf.

I thought I’ve been keeping a scrapbook of my excursions to prove to myself that I am real, but the other day it struck me that I’m really keeping it for him — my deceased mate. I can’t tell him in person what I’ve been doing (as I always did), so the photos are a way of sharing my experiences in abstentia. He would have loved seeing the Bradbury Building — it’s even more incredible than in the movie — light-filled, soaring ceilings, ornate iron grillwork, marble stairs, and cage elevators — so I marveled in his stead.

(If you don’t know the name of the building, I’m sure you still recognize it. The place has been featured in many television series, music videos, and movies, most notably, Blade Runner, Chinatown, Murphy’s Law, Lethal Weapon 4, and of course, Wolf.)

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A Photo is Not a Living Person (Though Sometimes I Wish it Were)

September 4, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I only have two photos of my deceased life mate/soul mate. It seems odd in this age of electronic imagery to have so few pictures, but there was no reason to take photos. We were almost always together. We remembered the things we did, the events we participated in, the conversations we had. A camera would have only been an intrusion in our lives.

One of the photos I have is fifteen years old, a formal photo of the two of us, taken at my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary celebration. After he died, his mother wanted a picture, so I took a photo of the picture, cropped me out, and sent it to her. That image of him sat in my computer for over a year without my looking at it. I simply could not bear the pictorial reminder that he was forever gone from this earth. (To be honest, I still cannot bear the thought of his being gone.) Even worse, it didn’t look like him, not the way he looked toward the end (though it had been a perfect likeness at one time), so I barely recognized him. I didn’t want to supplant what images I had of him in my mind with a photo.

About a year ago, however, my memories of him started to fade, and I desperately needed to see him, so I printed out the photo. Somehow, the photo makes him look happy and radiant, as if he were smiling at something only he knew. (Which is odd, because he does not look at all like that in the original photo.)

The other photo of him is from a few months before we died. (I can’t believe I made such a typo, but I’m leaving it in because in so many ways, “we” did die.) I’d just come back from a trip in a rental car, and since a rental car is a terrible thing to waste, we took a rutted and sparsely graveled road to the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. (Although we lived only twenty miles from there, neither of our old cars could safely make the trip.) I didn’t realize I had a photo of him until months after his death when I went through the pictures I took of the canyon. (By then, I often took photos — seeing life through the lens of a camera was the only way I could deal with his dying and then with his death.) He is standing at the rim of the Black Canyon, his back to me, staring out at . . . eternity? I was able to look at this photo occasionally, for some reason — maybe because I was able to “see” him the way I remembered him.

There is a third photo, one his oncologist took. I’d considered asking for it, but I remember how appalled my mate was when he saw it — he looked old and haggard and gray and very, very ill. I didn’t want to remember him as such, so I never followed through with my inclination.

A few months ago, I put away the photos. I went from not wanting to look at the pictures, to drawing comfort from them, to not wanting the constant reminder he was dead. But yesterday, I set the photos out again. I needed the feeling of connection, no matter how ephemeral. I don’t know how long it will be before I can’t stand to look at them again — perhaps only a day or two. As much as I need to feel connected to him (sometimes that lack of connection is like an itch deep inside), the truth is, a photo is not a living person, and I cannot feel connected to an image on a piece of paper.

Posted in culture, grief, life, photography, relationships. Tags: , , , . 5 Comments »
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