Months To Years Spring 2018 Months To Years Spring 2018 - Page 43

we were both equipped with the same quippy and sar- forever and that it’s going to ache. For my daughter, step- castic sense of humor that Spidey would throw out in a sister and stepbrother it had meant sneaking out at mid- narrative monologue as he scaled tall buildings with his night during our visit and toilet papering the house next miraculously webbed appendages.  door. For me it meant getting way too drunk on margari- We didn’t talk much the first 24 hours of my two-day visit. Instead, I learned that death made the dying do unpre- dictable things like unapologetically wearing mismatched tas after work with my best gay guy friends for seven days straight, after which I had the most incredible experience of my life.  socks or throwing plates of food in the trash can when you It was day eight since we’d come back from the Midwest are not looking so they can falsely lead you to believe they and my very patient boyfriend was acting as cook, chauf- are still strong enough to stomach sustenance. It was prob- feur and housekeeper for my daughter and me. I informed ably better that way because words didn’t seem to mean him that evening that I was done with my chaos spree. We anything anymore. I reverted to age ten and lay on my held a very nice meditation together for my father and father’s lap while we watched NASCAR racing for eight then as my boyfriend went into the office to do some work, hours straight. I knew he was going to be gone soon when my daughter and I performed a ritual of our own. We he told me at multiple points in the day that my dead found the butterfly that we had retrieved from my father’s grandfather was sitting on the couch alongside us, waiting sidewalk and placed it in the middle of the living room to take him to the other side.  floor. We then turned off the lights, put on some music, I didn’t find it strange that my father was sensing dead people. As a dabbler in metaphysics with a solid medita- tion practice, I was well versed in the idea that our souls remain souls with or without our bodies. I believed that the physical plane was a manmade manifestation and that our closed third eyes had created an ignorance of our inherent, molecular-level connection to the unseen, the unknowable, or what some deem God. So waving hello to and danced for a few hours. My daughter said the most poignant thing to me as I tucked her into bed that eve- ning. She told me that butterflies signified transformation and that our dance around its golden carcass represented our assistance in helping my dad pass over gracefully. I went to bed with soft tears streaming down my face and I didn’t stop them, preferring to feel the wet rub of my pillow against my skin as I sank into my dreams.  an invisible grandfather on the end of my father’s couch At two in the morning I was jolted awake as I lingered was not that hard to reconcile in my mind. somewhere near my bedroom ceiling. I was no longer in Before flying home, my daughter and I found a dead and broken butterfly on my father’s sidewalk—small and fragile as a piece of crepe paper in bright hues of orange and brown. We tucked it into a small, plastic eyeglass case and brought it back to California with us. I will never forget the look in my father’s eyes as I was leaving: huge pools of perfectly matched, stark, naked fear.  Loved ones of the dying also tend to act differently near death, but the common denominator seems to be that we act out in all sorts of erratic ways. Death threw a wrench into my normal behavior – it’s semi-impossible to go through your days when an energetic cord of love that huge is about to be yanked from your existence and you my body. I looked down upon the clock on my nightstand (with eyes I did not have) to note the time. I felt myself as being a pure and simple presence but noticed that my body was still down below me in bed where I was sleeping on my tear-soaked pillow next to my snoring boyfriend. It felt like the sound of being alone in a dark night with noth- ing but the crickets croaking out a soliloquy of suspended time. I was pure consciousness, made of nothing but knowingness. I was free of skin, flesh and bones. I wasn’t dreaming, but if I were, I couldn’t have pinched myself. I looked out the sliding glass door into my back yard and saw a deer poking around the window, its nose rubbing against the ground—an animal that in no way, shape, or form would have ever appeared at my home in the desert.  know that any second now you are going to lose someone 43