For Thor - 5 - Refugee

What a waste. I can't help but feel what a fucking waste it all was.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I appreciate the time I had with you. I have fond memories to replay in syndicated reruns in my mind's eye. I had 19 years of you being my boy. Yada, yada, yada…life's purpose and what greater good can come of this. Blah, blah, blah…I'll get through this stronger and better. I have the dozens and dozens of friends telling me stories to keep you alive and assuring me that I'll be okay. Not the same, but okay.

Lemme tell you what, I want you back, dammit! Fuck this fucking process. Fuck this fucking pain. I just want you back.  I want to go back and the way is closed forever.

Refugee. That's me.

There is no going back to where I was before the Night of Horror. The way is barred. The world that I knew and built with you has been blown to smithereens. I am shoved out of my cozy life ill-equipped to weather these elements.  I am being force-marched on a terrible journey into a strange, dark and forbidding landscape. Bleak. The sky opened up and rained down obsidian glass that froze into a million tiny scalpels. This is the path. It cuts deep with every step I take.

It is so much easier to sit down and not move.

I bought you an urn yesterday. In what reality is that shit okay? Huh? I took great care in its selection. I know it's one that you would choose for yourself if you could. But it laid me out. I googled, found, compared and bought an urn for my son's ashes online. They even had a coupon code. Bitter laugh as I was able to score free shipping and a 10% discount. The juxtaposition of something so normal -- online shopping and the victory dance of scoring a discount, with something so damned awful -- selecting a pretty box in which to put your mortal remains blew my damn mind.

There were so many visitors this weekend. They keep me from falling into the abyss; that sucking black hole where the totality of this anger, anguish and longing swirl. Instead, we sit on the shore and let the waves of these dark feelings lap on our toes, taking it in small doses. Company keeps me from diving in head first and drowning.  They also keep me distracted for the most part. But sometimes grief simply won't be denied for even one second more.  It holds me in its grip and dashes me against those obsidian shards.  That's when I call my lifelines.

Text "911" to the family. 

Thank God for champagne, and for Aunt Radha for reminding me that I might need a little something. Tiny little bubbles of anesthetizing fruity goodness percolate into that black mire to loosen its death grip and allow me to breathe.

Thor, sweetheart, right now there is not one single part of this that is okay.  Greater plan? Ha! Purpose, schmurpose! I don't give a damn about that right now. I am pissed off and selfishly irritated that I have to do this.

And at the same time, my heart is weeping with more love and more compassion than it ever has. So maybe there is one tiny thing that might, someday, be okay. Just don't push it, alright?