The Relief of Feeling

The morning before Richard’s funeral service, I was walking down the Uxbridge Road in London, and I felt a jolt of opposite but twinned emotions—joy and grief—both so extreme I started to cry in the street. I was standing in front of Al-Dimashqi with its produce displayed outside like inviting jewels in boxes, and I was carrying a warm bag of pastries to share later. The neighborhood of Shepherd’s Bush, where my aunt Maggie and uncle Richard have lived for many years, has become a place where my body relaxes. I felt so lucky to be where I was, and also devastated.

Back in Plattsburgh, NY, I’ve been going about my life with part of me missing, focused on my teaching and parenting and election anxiety. I haven’t been able to write for over a month. My sadness about losing Richard has been an undercurrent since he died in August, but it wasn’t until I was in London that I could put aside everything and just be with how I felt about him—how I continue to feel about him and Maggie.

I know that Rich would understand these paired extremes of emotion. He was one of the most joyful people I knew, and yet he worried hugely about what people were doing to the planet and to each other. I’m grateful he lived to see the Tories voted out of office, finally. I wish I could talk to him about politics right now.

Every day is full of great beauty and tremendous sorrows. How rarely we are able to fully witness and feel them both at once. Being in the city where I spent the most time with Rich, being at home there, my body had space and permission to acknowledge and react with complete truthfulness. It was not a cure, but it was a relief.