A Geography of Grief

Hot Tamales, cheap gas, dirty restrooms. That’s what I remember from the last time I passed this way…. past a particular gas station in Columbia, Tennessee. Isaac always loved a box of Hot Tamales, especially on the road with me as we explored small towns. I just passed this same gas station less than an hour ago, and the stream of memories were activated.

That was the day we walked around the old Military Academy in Columbia, and wandered into a sports store called “Upside Down Ted’s”… and was that the same day we went to that little local diner with the slices of pie in a circular glass display case? I don’t know… perhaps, but either way I insisted we try some pie because this was a taste of Americana, and we had to share the moment. Did we eat at that specific Waffle House on the corner? Or was it another of the dozens we had visited over the years? Does it even matter anymore?

The geography of grief is an unpredictable minefield of emotional geysers. Sometimes the peripheral glance while driving will open the door to a smile, a softness in the car, a spontaneous laugh, or a ten-minute gushing of tears in a random parking lot.

At times, I purposely and physically retrace the steps we took together. I touch the trees and rocks we touched together less than a year ago. I sit in the grass where we discussed baseball and squirrels and galaxies. I eat the buttered popcorn at our local arts theater and pat the empty seat affectionately next to me, remembering his presence and the shared experience of so many strange movies together.

There is a BBQ joint somewhere in the South, just off the main town square that the two of us shared years ago. We both had such fond memories of the time, but we would later laugh because neither of us could remember the town or the name of the diner. We remember the precise slope of the street entrance, the patio covered in plastic walls to keep in the air conditioning, the delicious food… but where was that place? Part of me wants to hunt it down and find it someday, but most of me is content relegating it to a mystery place that represents the beauty of so many shared moments together. Perhaps the physical geography is lost to memory, but the flavor and richness of the moment is with me forever.

Maybe this journey through physical terrain so embedded with my son is just a strange ritual or some kind of an ancient practice; I really don’t know and I don’t care. For me, I know it is important. Something tells me that each place has its own moment, its own quality, a source of living water to be tasted, sometimes in pain and deep yearning, and sometimes in a quiet and abiding love.

There is no schedule to keep, no bucket list of landmarks to be mapped and visited, no monuments to be erected or grand gestures required. Rather, a flow of current to be embraced, trusting the next bend in the road will awaken memories in its time. Like a leaf in a stream, finding its way amid the eddies and cascades, through spring-fed waters and rapids and still waters, ever moving toward the sea in a graceful (and often tumultuous) dance with nature. This has been my strange path for just under a year now.

Someday I will most likely move from Middle Tennessee, and these ubiquitous geographic reminders of Isaac—the places we ate, where we played and laughed and cried and lived together—will no longer be visually present every waking hour of the day. The scenery will change, and I will find myself in places Isaac never visited. Sure, I will always remember our drive to Tupelo on a Christmas day, and the little rope swing in Leipers Fork, and the tall pine tree you climbed and descended all covered in sap. I remember it all. But these moments, experienced on the very ground where we walked together, something sacred is here: yes, even at an old gas station or greasy Waffle House along the highway.

As many memories that could fit in our 21 years of shared life, I’m realizing that it was not the quantity but rather the quality that matters most. Yes, we were fortunate to go on a myriad of adventures together, cramming in several lifetimes of experience into our brief moments on this spinning globe. But what hits me most while driving past our shared landmarks is the vivid textures of these memories. His furtive smile, the glow of the setting sun, the smell of diesel, the sound of cicadas singing in the oaks. It makes me want to buy some Hot Tamales and make homemade popcorn, just like the old days with my son. And so, sometimes I do. Sometimes it’s right and fitting and beautiful and sloppy.

I will ride these currents of grief as they come, leaning into the curves and rapids of the river, and learn to rest and sail upon its deep blue waters by the grace of God. I know this path looks different for everyone. For me, it looks like this – at least for now. I cannot ignore the geography of grief, for it is everywhere… and it is beautiful. Greasy hashbrowns, gas station Hot Tamales, and yes, even the roving javelinas of Texas. They all bring me to Isaac, and that is a good thing.

Peace upon you, always.