The Dull Pounding of a Grief Song

I had just finished my morning yoga. My body felt all tingly and warm. My mind was awake and primed for a day spent exploring in the sunshine. It was that beloved "before the fall" moment. The "all I could see were flowers and rainbows and then I smacked my face into a telephone pole" moment. It wasn't quite noon and already the sun was penetrating the leaves in front of my window making them look like key lime pie. I've never had a liking for key lime, but even so, the light show was delicious. I hopped over to the window to get a taste of the breeze. My hands wrapped firmly around the top of the sill as I courageously pushed up. And then...JAM. Suddenly, my right index finger was on fire. Stupefied, I stared at it, stuck in between the pane and the top of the window. In a ridiculous panic, I muscled the window back down with my free hand while my index flew to find comfort in my mouth. My cat stared at me as I performed the world's sorriest jig on the carpet in front of him. "Hahhhhhhhh", I exhaled over and over. The stupid finger was all red and inflamed. The nail was growing this dark purple spot, and all I could think was to run and wake up Mikael. Mikael, who had just finished his night shift and was desperately trying to catch up on sleep in the other room, yes, he needed to be witness to my childish performance. I flopped into bed dramatically, my lips pulled into, what I can only imagine, was the most pathetic pout ever donned by a woman. Not even Marie Antoinette facing the guillotine could have mustered a more martyred expression. I wailed and whined as he looked at me with his eyebrows burrowing down to form two thick black lines with his lashes. He seemed confused. I swear he snorted. I might have snorted, too, aware of my obnoxiousness. But I couldn't deny the shrill ringing in my ears. The sharpness of the pain sliced through me over and over. "It's still hurting", I cried, like I was doing a bad parody of Charlie Bit My Finger. "Get some ice", he said. "Maybe take an Advil or two." I wanted him to kiss it. Give me a Hello Kitty Band-Aid and then maybe a lollipop for my troubles. He was being very indulgent, but I could see his eyes rolling back as sleep became victorious over my whimpering. Downcast, I soddenly lurched from the bed and shuffled to the shower. I lay down  and stretched out as my breath smoothed itself out. I took notice of my feet planted below the faucet. They looked like, felt like, roots. Gradually, I began to notice the rest of my body. That sharp, sharp pain was dulling down and my awareness was expanding beyond my finger to my whole being. My limbs looked so capable as they pressed into my splayed toes. I noticed a whiteness forming around that ugly dark spot on my nail. I realized, somewhere inside of me, sirens had sounded and troops had begun dutifully marching toward the pain, even as I complained of its aching insistence. The little indentation that had been forcibly formed on my phalange's pad was magically filling in. My finger was tender and swollen as the blood pulsed and danced inside it. Just a dull pounding now. Like a bassist thrumming one long, low, even note over and over until...it imperceptibly becomes part of you. That low humming sort of becomes part of the song inside you. Like the pain was just making space to play itself into your symphony. The song inside hiccups for a second and then expands into something more complex. Drums where there were only strings before. And all I can use as evidence of this magnificent union is a purple bruise on my right index fingernail. I remember the moment it jammed and the moment it began to heal. The space in between though...just a mad blur of sensations and shapes I couldn't recognize and fail to describe now. So very much like the year of his passing. I'm aware only of sharp cuts here and there. A subsequent screaming blindness. Then throbbing, throbbing as the blood congealed and forced a shift in my dermis, a discordant note bellowing out in my symphony until it levels out, finds the melody. But the melody changes, doesn't it? The song winds down, speeds up, sometimes stops altogether. Those are the worst moments. The blankness. Frozen musicians staring out into a darkened audience, the only music is that of chattering teeth and creaking joints. Then the pain. The pain sends blood surging back into the body and the limbs are warmed and it makes the players move again. It's nice to compare it to a song, isn't it? Sort of romanticizes it. Of course, I can speak in symbols and metaphors and never really touch on the truth of it. The memory itself is far too ugly a thing. Why not paint it up to resemble a drum beat against a fray of whimsy violins, or a croak in an operatic solo? Poetry is so much prettier than prose. Song makes plain speech look terribly naked. So, I will brush color over that dreadful moment where I placed the pen in his quivering hand, the frail acceptance of his death sentence sprawled out in a wavering signature. Following the ambulance. Stone-faced. Brother in the backseat. The frailty. The utter villainy of cancer. Little pieces of glass strung together in a necklace that cuts as I wear it around my neck. The ever-present desire to run. I'll remember that most of all. The overwhelming compulsion to look away and will myself to apathy as my father was torn from me. The hatred. The bottomless rage towards the happy, and the healthy. The death sentences I wished upon so many old, perverted men. Angry at death while averting life. Avoiding contact. Playing the same damn song over and over while I drank until I felt the click. I know this post is nonsensical. I know there isn't a hint of salvation in it. It isn't particularly humble of me to say that I don't believe in the power of prayer anymore. But there are splotches of light. And I am not the same girl that I was a year ago, or even a few months ago. Somewhere inside of me, there is a brightness growing. The troops were marching toward the pain even as I complained at its vengeful insistence. I think I knew all along that the song would play itself out. The limbs will warm again, and the feet will take root, and bit by bit, the players will find their sway as old and new notes tinkle together to form a song never before played.