The old man enters the room, shuffling slowly. Each footstep punctuates the immensity of his loss. Usually tall and proud in stature, today he is unable to draw upon his reserves. His every move speaks in a loud volume: what is the point?
The younger man waits to see him, unsure of both himself and how to navigate this meeting. He has no road map, and panic momentarily passes across his face. His love for the old man helps to hold him steady, and on some level he knows he has to be here, even though fear is rising in equal measure and telling him to run. As they approach each other and embrace the old man cries softly, each sob moving through his tall frame.
A proud man who, in his adventurous youth, travelled the world and worked overseas in the post-war era when it was certainly not the norm, and the world was a much, much bigger place. His soul had hungered for more. He travelled far and wide, pursued a love in another country, raised a family in two countries, lived and worked on different continents, and was always in charge of his destiny. Always.
On this day however, his adventurous spirit is shrouded, his grief palpable, and his destiny unclear. Today his soul hungers for only one thing, one person - and this one person he is not able to have. His friend, his lover, his wife.
Conversation starts, awkwardly at first, providing a diversion for a time. The reason for the informal gathering is skirted, the proverbial elephant in the room. Aside from the usual discomfort borne of a culture that does not encourage discourse about feelings, there is a stranger in the midst, and the old man, even in his grief, is vigilant. He needs to be sure of her. He does not need more pain.
The stranger is aware of this and quietly observes for some time, mindful of his recent loss, and wanting to understand the rules that govern his world. This is his domain, his castle. For every family it's different. Emotional boundaries are not always the same, and the stranger knows this only too well.
The younger man, in his own discomfort, entertains the old man and his grown sons with tales of his own adventures. He loves the old man dearly, for reasons not apparent to others, and is struggling seeing him in pain. For a time it gives the men a reprieve from the strained atmosphere of trying to relate to each other in the face of their loss. Internally, they all have their own feelings to deal with. They too are husbands, fathers. This is all percolating, watching and being with their father...with the absence of the female emotional caretaker of their family echoing loudly through the room.
The stranger finally finds common ground, a love of another continent that runs deep for the old man. The continent from which his wife, his lover, his friend originates. As the hours pass, the stranger finds appropriate places to ask a few questions, tip toeing through the mine field of what is not being said. At first, the old man is gruff - he is not used to this level of interest. He is not used to her way. She sees him clearly, but is not perturbed. She trusts her instincts, and gently forges ahead.
At some point it appears she has proven her safety. Not shying away from their suffering, something in the dynamic starts to shift. The armour is slowly being dismantled. The old man opens his heart, the shroud is slowly lifted, and the stories of a big life gently start unfolding out of his life's treasure chest. The sons, now well travelled men in their own right, sense the change, and an opportunity to hear stories never before shared. One drops a photo album on the table in front of the stranger. The album contains old black and white family photos...
These photos are of the beginning - the start of the life that their mother and father shared, the reason for their very existence. Using the stranger as a tool, the treasure chest is gently prised open a little further as the old man shares his stories; stories that start to reveal the nature and depth of his grief. The sons are wide eyed, some of what is being said is new information to them, and they find ways to ask questions of the old man as he warms to his subject and his heavy armour is put down.
One thing is certainly clear from this exchange: the little lady who just died was the old man's world.
There is so much more to this story, this afternoon of connection, love and loss. What is most striking is the power of story telling, sharing tales of a life lived, and above all - listening and being present to people in their grief. Make no mistake, kitchen table wisdom is a subtle yet powerful healer. Finding ways to cross beyond the discomfort, to bridge a connection with someone in their suffering, both alleviates their pain and enriches all. So I encourage you to acknowledge your fear of not knowing what to do or fear of somehow getting it wrong - and know that all you need to do is be there and listen. The experience of loss is so uniquely layered, and definitely not linear - it comes back to visit time and time again. Sitting with someone in their pain, extending your hand and your heart could be the very handle that gives them something to hold on to. Today, tomorrow....and longer.
This is dedicated to Alice. RIP. xxx