GRIEF

GRIEF

 The disclosure that follows was written with the expectation that it would be placed in the directory on my computer titled “Not For Publication.”  After much thought I decided to publish it to my blog . . . 

            Grief.

A common experience for everyone.

Family members die; friends die —  and we grieve.  

And each of us experiences, and expresses that emotion in our own way.

When my son Willie died my oldest daughter phoned me at work to inform me.  I hung up the phone, got up, walked to the parking lot, and drove home to my apartment in Austin. I went in and sat in a chair in the living room.  And sat.

And sat. 

I did not cry.

Pop's voice, from many years past, echoed in my mind: 

“Don't cry, Boy. Men don't cry.”

Willie died in 1989.

At some time shortly thereafter my youngest daughter phoned me, and rebuked me for not showing grief.

“After all, he was your son!”

I didn't respond.  But I wondered how she presumed to know how much emotion I felt —  or displayed. 

I don't remember where she was located at the time, but it was far away, in another state.

There was no reason for me to try to assure her, but I was grieving — in my own way.  In silence.

In 1992 —  many miles farther down the road of my life — as I sat in a chair in my living room in Denver, I thought about Willie.

And I cried. I bawled. I sobbed.  Loudly.  In solitude.  I let it all out.  I cried uncontrollably.

Sorry, Pop — but this time I gotta cry . . .

Mom died in 2000.  I was working in Birmingham. I sat, and remembered the years, 1940 to 1945, when I was with my family in Sheffield, Alabama, in Mom's loving presence.

In 2000 I grieved.

But I did not cry.

 In 2010 my sister Millie called to inform me that Pop died. I lived in Alice at that time.  I sat in my recliner.  And I  heard his voice . . .

“Don't cry, Boy. Men don't cry.”

I didn't.

But I did grieve.

In my own way.

Alone.

In silence.

In 2012 my good friend Stan Russell died.  

His family brought him to Alice for the funeral service.

I attended, in the same facility where I had sat with Stan at the 2011 funeral service for his wife, Peg.  Then, sitting next to me at her funeral, he sobbed.  I put my arm around him, to comfort him.

Seven months later, at Stan's funeral I sat next to Ruth, my companion in Alice, and very nearly cried 

To avoid a public display of emotion, I left and went home. 

As we walked to the parking lot I commented to Ruth that I was feeling more grief than I felt at the death of my own father.

I grieved.  In my own way. 

Alone. And in silence.

But I did not cry.

Now, in 2023, I reminisce — thinking of the loving relationships with friends and family —  and I grieve.  Silently.

Frequently, my eyes water, but I do not cry.  Or a t least I do not sob.

Pop wouldn't approve...

“Don't cry, Boy.....”

  .