Six Years

13 Responses to Six Years

1. Barb says:

   January 2, 2015 at 10:07 am

   What better way to start the New Year than with a good cry? Thank you, Shelia, for the link to that beautiful article.

   I’m sorry for your loss.

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 2, 2015 at 10:50 am

     Thank you, Barb.

     Reply
2. stevie says:

   January 2, 2015 at 10:40 am

   Thinking of you, my dear friend, and sending all my love. It seems impossible that it’s been six years but I know it is true. There is something almost cruel about the way time marches on. I love you, Sheila.

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 2, 2015 at 10:51 am

     xoxoxoxo Time is such a strange thing. I know you understand. Love you, Stevie.

     Reply
3. mutecypher says:

   January 2, 2015 at 11:34 am

   I’m sending warm thoughts your way. Bless you, Sheila.

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 2, 2015 at 11:36 am

     Thank you.

     Reply
4. rae says:

   January 2, 2015 at 11:44 am

   I never knew your dad, but he always had me hooked with just his first word in comments to you: “Dearest.” (It says so much!)

   Thoughts with you, sheila.

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 2, 2015 at 1:11 pm

     Thanks.

     Reply
5. Anne says:

   January 2, 2015 at 11:49 pm

   I wonder how similar our fathers’ bookshelves were. I remember the Maud Gonne biography sitting there prominently, along with the entire oeuvre of Seamus Heaney. Of course, those books have been mine now for some time.

   The first movie I saw after my father’s death was Trevor Nunn’s *Twelfth Night,* which I had to see because I was slightly obsessed with Toby Stephens. Or, at least, I had been obsessed with him before I lost all interest in life. By the time of the screening, I could only dimly recall what was appealing about ol’ Toby, since I cared about so very little, but I had this recognition that the old me would have seen the movie. So I felt I should go. I’d forgotten that in the play Olivia is mourning her dead brother – Orsino/Toby complains about this at length – and it was weird to me how there is this open discussion and complaint about someone with a huge “debt of grief,” who is beyond the reach of worldly things like desire or courting. And how Olivia’s arc is to recognize that she *is* still alive and that there *is* someone she desires. It was like the actors were all turning to me and asking, Isn’t Toby here fanciable? Don’t you feel *something*? Come on, just a little? (Not that Olivia ends up returning Orsino’s affection, in the story, but I could conveniently identify with Viola instead, for that part.)

   It was like an invitation back into the world. I still wasn’t quite ready to take it yet, but it was there.

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 3, 2015 at 6:24 am

     Oh, Anne. Such a vivid memory – I so know what you are talking about – the dim-ness of life calling – how disorienting.

     I have inherited some of my father’s books, too – and he gave his first-edition copy of Ulysses right before he died. It’s so precious to me that I don’t even feel comfortable touching it.

     Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 3, 2015 at 10:10 am

     // It was like the actors were all turning to me and asking, Isn’t Toby here fanciable? Don’t you feel *something*? Come on, just a little? //

     I can’t get past that. You describe that sensation so beautifully, Anne.

     Thanks so much for sharing it.

     Reply
6. John Vail says:

   January 3, 2015 at 7:04 am

   Dear Sheila,

   I checked into your site this morning to leave another comment and then decided to read through the tribute that you did for your dad and now I am feeling completely unmoored. Whew. I lost my mom (who likewise met my dad at a Knights of Columbus dance in Brooklyn nearly 60 years ago) five years ago this coming March and there are still days when it can completely overwhelm me. There’s something insidiously cruel about anniversaries, their unwanted reminder that we have managed to live one year, two years, and more, without our loved ones although I suppose that they are also a testament to the fundamental resiliency of the human spirit, that we do manage to find ways to be happy and joyful. Nevertheless, your own lament about never having the chance to introduce a future partner to your dad is something that also brought me great sadness about my mom and for whatever reason, hearing it mirrored in someone else’s experience has left me reeling. I am sorry for your loss and hope that you managed to find some joy in the day or a happy memory of your dad to chase the sadness away for a bit and thanks for your courage in writing about the whole experience. there’s a passage from David Grossman that I thought you might appreciate: “In the Jewish tradition, there is a legend, or a belief, that every person has a small bone in his body called the luz, located at the tip of the spine, which unfolds the essence of a person’s soul. This bone cannot be destroyed. Even if the entire human body is shattered, crushed or burned, the luz does not perish. It stores a person’s spark of uniqueness, the core of his selfhood. Once in a while I have asked people close to me what they believe their luz is. Artists have said that its their creativity, passion to create and urge to produce. One friend answered, after much thought, parenthood. And another friend immediately replied that her luz was her longing for the things and people she missed”. and now I need a walk at the sea. best, John

   Reply
   • sheila says:

     January 3, 2015 at 10:14 am

     John – your comment made me cry.

     (In a good way. )

     Beautiful, and comforting.

     I agree with you about anniversaries. I am very sorry to hear about your mother, and I too am ambushed/blindsided at times. I had a moment like that just the other day. I know the same is true for my siblings – especially since they all have children born AFTER my father died. It’s hard, sometimes – grieving is an ongoing process. The loss is forever.

     I will pass on that David Grossman quote – that’s a keeper. It’s echoing in my head right now. So profound.

     Thank you so much.

     Reply

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