Now That Time Has Run Out
Time is the main topic on a funeral day: the quality of it spent, its scarcity, the odd way it behaves.
The sitting and waiting for the next necessary action — a funeral day is un-busy, we forget that part. “Can I just run back to grab –” Yes. Now that time has run out, somehow we have all of it in the world.
I didn’t know Hilly very long, but he’s one of those people you find yourself in step with on sight, no stride adjustment necessary. “Is it just me, or –” No. Now, there is a space where the ear we muttered into used to go. Across the street from a once-mighty church with boards for eyes, Hilly is at the front of the room, a well-loved toy in a suit that is as usual in these cases too big across the shoulders despite the valorous pinning efforts of the men with dark grey voices. The Velveteen Hilly, but in reverse, loved and now somehow not quite real.
We take our seats in the class-clown row. It is a hallowed place, to chronicle the best Hilly stories with big arms and elastic cringing. It’s where he’d sit, we hope.
Jake takes the podium. “I’m Jake,” he says, “and Hilly and I are best friends.” The precise and gentle emphasis on “best” holds every companionable bike ride that ever was, every hour lolled looking at clouds or catalogs, all the made-up words and terrible trips and church giggles. He’s very British about breaking our hearts into a thousand little sharp bits, Jake is, but break them he does.
Then there is an empty hour. Dirk and I go home and pretend there isn’t a hole we may fall into while eating sandwiches, before we go to the Hillyhaus. Mrs. Hilly’s tiny, fiercely polite father presides over the cold cuts. Dogs and cousins mill about, and in the pictures on every surface, Hilly is victorious, Hilly is content, Hilly is enjoying a sparkler at our wedding with toothy glee. Hilly is.
Then it’s night, though only minutes seemed to pass, and I will look for Hilly where I can sometimes find my missed, in the dreams about unknown wings and secret doors. I can’t conjure them, but sometimes they come to these shady rooms, my grandmother in all her ages, my aunts, Little Joe, Van who spoke to me like a fellow Mason even when I was nine. I want them to tell me where to go next, or how to follow them; they never do, but it’s nice to see them again.
My head is a noisy spillway of tears and pinot. I get in bed and pet a cat and hope for hidden houses when I fall asleep, and when I wake up, my own Hilly has sent me pictures of her hair.
“Is it just me?” No. Never has been.
Thanks, Don.
(Thanks, Nation. Thanks, Hilly.)
Tags: September 11th
@turtle – Same here. I guess I’d have cried earlier if I’d been able to get here before now.
Sarah, I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. Love and hugs to you and all who knew him. Thank you, as always, for your beautiful and thoughtful words.
Thank you, Don, for being my friend’s battle buddy. I’m forever grateful that you two had each other that day. Happy Birthday, wherever you are, beloved angel.
Nation, nice to see you all again. Thanks for, you know, existing.
I’m here, too, as I am on every 9/11. Happy birthday, Don, and wishing you peace, Sars.
The only 9/11 thing I want to read every year, I keep hoping you’ve found him.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you.
@Bridget… I was just thinking this morning that someday my little boys will learn about Sept 11th, and what will I tell them? What I remember most is that deep blue sky. Also, listening to the NPR Pentagon correspondent (live) saying, “There seem to be some alarms going off here…” Now I know I will send them here to read the story of Sars and Don, someday, when they are old enough to learn about good and evil. And now I am trembling and crying at work, so sad and angry that my boys will have to learn about evil. I know that 9/11 was far from the only horrible day in the world, but it was OUR horrible day. Thank you, Sars, for helping us to remember.
For timezone reasons I’m here on the 12th. Happy belated birthday Don, and hope that you one day read Sars’ writing.
Yet another in the “I come here every year” club, though it took me till today to do it. This year’s entry is especially heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing it.
And happy birthday, Don, wherever you are.
So beautiful, Sars. Thank you for this, and thanks to you and Don for being part of my process every year of remembering, grieving and renewing hope.
It’s always nice to see them again.
Peace, Nation.
Happy birthday, Don. I still believe you’re out there and you’ll find Sars (and, by extension, all of us) someday … and every year, this is the only place I come to remember.
Thank you, Sars.
I’m a day late posting, but I always come here on “that day” and think back. As the years go by, the big national memorials lose their punch for me, but “For Thou Art With Us” never does.
Happy birthday, Don. RIP, Hilly. Pass the cake and screw the diet.
I’m sorry for your loss, Sars. Lovely tribute to your Hilly.
Thanks again, Don.
Loss reverberates, still. Thanks for sharing, Sars, a bit of Hilly, and you.
Good cake, too.
Thank you for the kind words and condolences, everyone.
May God rest Hilly’s soul, and with merciful love, gather him into the peace of Eternity.
Blessings to you and your husband, Sarah, and blessings on the work of your hands. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your heart with all of us.
Happy belated birthday, Don.
I’m late to the party, my apologies. Thank you again, Sars, for sharing with us. You always seem to get the feelings right on the money. Blessings to you and your family and family of friends.