Black Armbands

A few mornings ago, I woke up and lazed in bed with my eyes shut. I’m not sure how awake I was. I just tried to feel comfortable in my skin. As I finally opened my eyes, I let them stare and was immediately reminded of seeing Michael in his bed at the nursing home, awake, eyes open, curled up on his left side, staring at his knees. I felt a kinship. I felt a peace that I hope Michael felt.

I want to be at peace.

I think I have to name this grief: that it has to be labelled, has to look a certain way. “I don’t know how I feel”, I keep saying. But I am feeling whatever I’m feeling. The label isn’t important.

A friend of Jim’s, commenting on David’s death three and a half years ago, said that in the 19th century, people were not expected to take on social obligations for a year after the death of a close family member. Wikipedia says British siblings worn mourning clothing for six months. Michael died less than a month ago. Maybe I need to get my psychological black armband on.

When I say, “I don’t know how I feel,” I think that if it doesn’t feel like sadness it doesn’t ‘count’. I can’t use it as an ‘excuse’ not to do something unless it has me doubled over in pain.


Carl emailed everyone a sketch for a stained glass design he is working on. It's three angels: Dad and Mom with a smaller, child angel between them: Michael. Carl  wondered what color to make Michael’s angel. Maggie reminded us that Mom made an afghan for Mike that was like Joseph's coat of many colors. She had made afghans for each of her children as they married and used the remnants for Mike's. It's wonderful symbolism: we each are a part of him, he's a part of each of us. Years ago I cross-stitched "Merry Christmas" in German: Frӧhliche Weihnachten, and gave it to Maggie. Since our last name is Hazen, I hung two stockings on each of the four Hs: green for Maggie's, purple for mine, brown and blue for Carl's, yellow for Timothy's, red for Steve's, a blue one for Mom, a red one for Dad. And a mix of all the colors for Michael's, to go between Maggie's and mine.

Yes, Mike was a part of each of us. He helped make us who we are.