Odd Rituals of Sad People
Finding catharsis and a little humor in grieving.
It’s been interesting observing humans from my new home in the stars. If heaven had internet, I’d start a new website called Humans of Earth. Don’t laugh, it worked brilliantly for the Humans of New York guy.
I can see everyone I love from up here, but for the most part, I pay close attention to the rituals my mother has created since I died.
Some of her new habits bring a smile to my face but others make me worry for her sanity. Will she ever feel free enough to live a day without following through on each little step in this new routine?
It’s as if she feels like she’d be dishonoring me if she neglected one small, ritualistic act in a day. I hope it doesn’t turn into compulsive behavior.
I had been away from home for a long time before I died and I never wanted to live in her city again because that’s where it all went wrong for me. She understood why I didn’t wish to come home but she always longed for my return.
Now she has an impressive shrine of me set up in her living room. Mom selfishly loves that I’m in her home permanently and can no longer leave.
My “tribute station,” as she calls it is a whole cabinet. Right in the center is my stainless steel urn. It weighed at least a hundred pounds before my remains were inside so surely it will survive the apocalypse.
Each morning before turning any lights on, my mom makes her way to the living room and lights my candle. She buys tealights by the truckload now and there’s one burning every waking moment she’s in the house.
My urn proudly displays my headphones hanging over it because that’s who I was. Nice touch, mom. Thanks.
She put the headphones there thinking she could magically transcend music to me for the rest of my afterlife. She doesn’t know we have unlimited music up here, and it’s not all just harps.
As a lover and creator of music, I was always plugged in. It’s rare to find a photo of me not wearing those headphones and we never had a video chat without them.
There are two shelves and four drawers in my tribute station.
One shelf holds my university sweater folded neatly so the TRU emblem can be proudly displayed.
The other shelf holds my new laptop. I bought it a few days before I died. It could be a brand new, clean slate of a workstation for her but she’s afraid to use it. Trust me mom, it’s better than that old hunk of a laptop you’re currently working with.
She has only opened my laptop once, about a month after I died. When it powered up there it was, sitting untouched on the screen. Twenty-six seconds of a brand new song I was working on.
She hated my music but always loved when I was creating. She knew it brought me contentment when very few things did.
My passport is also displayed on my tribute station. It contains the stamps of my month-long bucket list trip to Europe when I was eighteen. She knows how much I valued that passport and the experiences woven into its fibers.
The four drawers in the cabinet contain candles, funeral home paperwork, my Chromebook, and my high school and university diplomas. Yes, even though I messed up my life beyond repair I did achieve some pretty great things along the way.
My favorite item she has displayed is an 8x8 canvas photo. It’s a black and white picture she took nine years ago. I had taken her out for dinner that evening to tell her about the ‘bun in the oven’ who is now her eight-year-old granddaughter.
I have to admit it really is an awesome photo of me. One of the true moments of joy in my life, which is obvious by the smirk on my face.
She added the inscription herself. Everybody knows I’ve always belonged among the wildflowers. I guess I made it.
Perhaps the weirdest thing my mother does every night since I left is inhale my essence. I wore a kufi prayer cap nearly every day in my last year of life because I had begun exploring the Muslim faith.
Lucky for her I probably hadn’t washed that cap in weeks so my DNA is all over it. The cap sits on her nightstand now and she buries her face in it, taking two long inhales before bed every night.
Weird, right?
She also wears my pajama pants and sweaters, she uses the bars of soap I hadn’t unboxed yet, and she wears my necklace because it has touched my human body.
She’s about to pick up her new vehicle this week but silently in her heart she struggles with the idea of giving up her current car because I’ve ridden in it.
She needs to remember I’ve also slept in her bed, laid on her couch, given her the permanent gift of stretchmarks and infiltrated her life in a million other ways. Who cares about the car?
She keeps my cell phone powered on and charged at all times. It took her two months to disconnect my number but she still logs on to Facebook through my phone once in a while. I think she gets a kick out of scaring my friends when they see I’m online.
Ultimately, mom has no clue if her behavior is bizarre or not. She’s never done this before and thankfully, she’ll never have to do it again. I was her one and only.
Bizarre or not, I’m down for whatever it takes to bring her some kind of comfort.
It will probably take her a long time to realize that none of these material things are actually ME but for her, they’re the closest thing to me she can get her hands on.
She will learn to grieve in a way that allows her to live a full life again someday. It doesn’t matter how long it takes to happen. One day she’ll realize I’m all around her every day, all the time.
These ‘memoirs of a dead guy’ are lovingly written by a mother who lost her son on September 29th, 2020. His life stories and struggles are compelling and she writes as a means to connect to others who may have similar stories to tell.
