8:43 p.m. - 2005-06-13
Grief Rant
The harder I grieved, the more resentment I incurred from Tom. Sometimes it verged upon wrath. He hated the way Matthew's presence only gained strength through death. The way he was tangibly there, a formidable wall between us. I could no longer look directly into Tom's eyes, for fear of exposure. The connection with the ghost of Matthew was far more real than anything in the room. The news of Matthew's death evolved in horrible fragments and pieces over several weeks. Slowly I receded from Tom, surrendering like a tide to the irresistible pull of the alabaster moon that was now Matthew. I learned finally that he had been found beside a stream in back of the theater complex. Simply dead at twenty-nine. Just a can of beer had witnessed his unscheduled flight into eternity. One last toast to a world unspeakably lonely and he was gone. One graceful sigh in solidarity with the ragged castaways of this lopsided world and he was lost to us. There was a memorial service at the Catholic church Matthew had attended as a child. He used to joke that if he were to walk in there as an adult, he would spontaneously combust. As it turned out, there was no casket. Matthew had been cremated. The irony of this would not have been lost on him. Matthew's favorite thing to do was to make people laugh. If the joke was on him, so much the better. Even in death, his every memory coaxed a grin from the most hardened cynic. It seemed the one place immune to the joyful spirit of Matthew was this solemn assembly. The kids were unaturally quiet and well behaved. Matthew would never have tolerated it. He would have done something goofy to shake off the palor of reverence, mooned us from the altar. Passed out cigs to cheer the delinquents in their Sunday best. I huddled in a back pew weaving a holy card, soft and damp, between trembling fingers. On the front was Michael the Archangel holding a silver sword. On the back was the Prayer of St. Francis telling me, too late, that loving was more important than being loved. Below was Matthew's birth and death date. Stark and ornate. As much unlike him as anything could ever be. Matthew, full of life, eyes as fresh from God as an infant's. The horror of incense looped in the stale air. I shook with the certain knowledge that somehow I was to blame. My lavish tears were inappropriate, given the nature of our relationship. My extravagant grief drew glances from family and childhood friends, who found themselves consoling me. Who was I? A newlywed. The autopsy was weeks away, but I was inconsolable in my dark certainty.
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