I went to the cemetery today to clean Brian's stone. I don't feel closer to him there. He isn't there. The ashes of his remains were put in the ground there. The stone means a lot to me. Long after I'm gone that stone should still be there as proof of his life. It will tell people who never knew him that he once lived, and that he mattered.
As I walked amongst the graves in our small cemetery, I saw memorials to people I knew and to people that I didn't. Many of them lived well into old age. Others didn't. Brian isn't the youngest to have been buried their. Not far from his is the grave of a baby. But in our small cemetery, Brian is one of the youngest to have died. He was diagnosed a month past his 48th birthday, and died three and a half months later.
And now, a few hours after leaving the cemetery, I am suddenly filled with rage. Why is he gone? Why didn't he have the opportunity to get old?
It is 9/11, and I feel guilty for my anger. All those who died 15 years were murdered. Their lives were taken through violence, not through a chance of bad luck. This guilt doesn't change my anger though. Knowing that it might have been worse doesn't make it easier. People comment on how much better I'm doing, and I want to scream! Of course I manage my grief better than I did during those early months. All that means is that I have gotten better at making you less uncomfortable with my grief. My life with grief will never be comfortable for me.
