Emotional relocation and candle lighting, Part two.

Picking up where I left off yesterday on the new dialogue of emotional relocation. I have to laugh at the so called marriage “experts” who recommend that couples make sure they talk about something other than their children.  Pardon me while I snort. Loudly. By God’s grace, we will be married 32 years next month, lots can go wrong in a marriage, talking about the children isn’t one of them.  A couple develops their own language about their children.  When Justin left for college at Franciscan, he became “college boy.”  When Ryan left for the Navy, he became “the Navy.” Doug would come home at night and ask “have you heard from college boy, have you heard from the Navy?”  When Justin was in grad school, he became “South Dakota”, when Ryan was in Washington State after the Navy, he was working radiation control, he became “rad con.”  Parental short-hand, as natural as breathing.  If Doug and I had not seen each other all day, our first lines of dialogue were about the boys. They gave our life meaning, wonder, adventure, why wouldn’t we talk about them? They had and have interesting lives.  They were and are, the source of inside jokes, quick wits, irreverent at times, refreshingly honest, both with a penchant for truth. We liked talking about them, we liked talking to them.

Then the dialogue just didn’t change, it stopped.  New terms are learned, different language employed, foreign…all so foreign. Doug doesn’t ask about “South Dakota boy” anymore, he is dead. We both anxiously ask each other every day, “have you heard from Ryan?”  What are we really asking?  Is Ryan still breathing?  It is easy to forget to breathe ourselves till we know he is still breathing. Our language as a couple has changed, our language as parents has changed.

Part of the this grief phenomenon that I have experienced is being able to talk about Justin to most people with little shown emotion, but can’t even say his name to Doug or Ryan. Tears are a form of communication, yes, but frustrating at times. There are things you want to say, stories you want to share, and you simply cannot. Again the myth of a finite period for grief. Grief work lasts a lifetime. You keep trying, but all you want to say comes out in tears. I think that is why it is so important that ritual and commemoration involve the entire body, the senses are a bridge in communication. We lit a candle as a couple, didn’t have to say anything. You could see the light, smell the faint smell of honey from the candle, and just breathe. When Doug lit a candle that next night, we didn’t talk about it, didn’t plan it, it was a spontaneous moment of communication.  A father remembering his son, in doing so, he honors the grief of the mother of his son.

Remembrance, to be made whole, to re-member.  Justin was physically severed from our life, we will grieve and bleed from that wound always, but by ritual and commemoration, we re-member…he stays connected with us.  I bought a case of beeswax candles from the nuns at Quiet Light Candles the next day.  I didn’t understand what had happened, I just knew that for a moment, something worked.  For me, I don’t think I could understand emotional relocation until it happened once, even then it was not immediate recognition, it took a lot of reflection.

Now, Justin’s candle is frequently lit, Christmas Eve, family gatherings, Saturdays, evenings,  it just flickers in the background. We don’t talk about it, or point it out, the beeswax scent is unobtrusive, but it adds a gentle life to the room. The flame catches our eye, and we remember a boy who added quiet life to a room. We  let it burn till it naturally goes out. Gently.  Quietly.