For the most part, I’ve moved on with my life. I rebel against myself for saying it, but I hardly think about Bob any more than I did 6 months ago. The occasional reminder, such as LinkedIn emailing me about his anniversary at a summer internship, jerks me back into reality. Today is his burial, which pretty much marks the end of the formal grieving process. From now on, we will have fewer and fewer opportunities to remember thrust upon us. I’m left dissatisfied.
Yesterday, I talked with my parents about closure and what it takes to get it. Being settled, having an explanation of what happened, knowing where Bob stands, wrapping up logistical details, and so on seem to be part of what needs to happen. I guess. I really don’t know since it hasn’t happened yet.
After Father’s Day, it rolled into my mind that we’ll never see Bob’s children. Before the twins were born, I remember morning for my future children, who I imagined would never be born. There will be no miracles for Bob. Not even the Resurrection will restore that lost future, as far as I know. I can only trust his joy will be complete even so.
Bob will be buried at Arlington in the plot that eventually my parents will share with him. It’s not often that you can see into the future, but I can envision our visits to Virginia, which will likely now include a pilgrimage to the National Cemetery. Will that be good for closure? I don’t rightly know.
Lately, I’ve been even more irrationally worried about death than usual. It’s a sort of accessibility bias: an example easily comes to mind of a sudden, unexplained death, so it’s easy for me to imagine people in my life dying unexpectedly. I’d like that habit to stop; I don’t like being at the mercy of things out of my control.