Two Giraffes

Sometimes I feel that when I revisit Anne’s memories, I am simply sustaining neurological pathways that no longer have any function in my life.  These pathways were sources of incredible joy and happiness.  Now that they are no longer nourished, they seem more like old shoes that are comfortable for a bit, and then you remember why you don’t wear them anymore.  

For those of you who are grieving, please understand me here.  I’m not talking about Anne herself as that “old shoe.”  I’m talking about those places in my internal processes where she used to “live”—places and pathways that no longer serve a useful function and are in the process of being recovered for other work in my brain.

It seems that the work of telling Anne’s story—in poetry, in blog-writing, and even in a book—is a way of transferring those memories from active pathways of daily use into places of “long-term storage.”  I am no neuroscientist, but I think that is what happens.  Those memories have “moved” for me, at least in emotional terms, when I have shared Anne with others in these ways.  Those memories become less painful and more joyful.  They become part of her story, and that helps me to achieve a bit of distance from the loss without losing who she was.  

When Anne visited Tanzania the first time, she brought a gift for our marriage.  It was a beautiful and naturalistic carving of two giraffes with their necks entwined.  She saw it as a symbol of our life together, and I loved it when she brought it home.  It sat in our living room no matter what the season--the only decoration that Anne did not rotate on a seasonal basis.  It was a sign to me that she reflected on the nature and depth of our marriage just as I did.  This carving was a precious gift to me.

Anne had pictures of that trip, including one of an adolescent giraffe in the Ngorongoro crater.  It made me think about our giraffes in the living room.  One of the pair is now gone, even though the wooden statuettes have not yet gotten the message.  They are still wrapped together in a mute testimony to human love that has met mortality. 

I took the carving, polished it well, and placed it on the mantle next to the box of Anne's cremains.  That felt good and right to me.  That's where the giraffes belong now.  The twined necks are memory--reality no longer.

I know that for many, it is so important to hang on to the artifacts of marriage and even to sustain the idea that they are still married to their deceased love one.  For me, that is a painful charade.  I wouldn't presume to tell someone else how to do this.  I don't have any idea how to do it myself at any given moment.  But for me, the symbols of a marriage that is no more are painful unless they are placed in the category of memory.  Moving the giraffes was another small step of acceptance, and down that path lies healing in the future.

So much of what happens in the world arises out of unresolved grief and not letting go of the past.  Letting go doesn't mean forgetting.  Rather, it means remembering in profoundly real ways.  People will say to me that I will always have Anne's memories.  Indeed that is true, and I cherish those thoughts.  But if I could get something back, that something would be Anne herself--not merely her memories.  Her memories are pale imitations of the reality of Anne and will fade into some degree of fabrication as time goes on.

I am with C. S. Lewis on this one.  Memories in the end are not a way to hang on to the beloved but rather to let her go.  Otherwise those memories become idols.  And idolatry always does violence to us.  So the gently twining necks and the dappled skin sit where they belong--in my memory.  That's where they do the most good.