GRIEF

     The moment my mother died, I was on a commuter train, first car, first seat, every muscle in my body straining to propel the train faster.  I was warned she was dying and I wanted her to see me there -- on time.

     I won a dollar on my wedding day for being on time.  She was always early with moments to compose herself before every event in her life.  I was always catching up to events, ruffled. "Please," she pleaded, "this once in your life, be ready."  And then she bribed me as she always had -- a nickle for courage, a dime for an "A".  Now, a dollar for punctuality.

     I asked for her at the hospital admission desk and the receptionist had no record of her coming in.  A surge of anger filled me.  "Damn -- I'm at the wrong hospital. I'm wasting time."

     I explained maybe because she had come by ambulance, there was no record at the front desk.

     She rang up the emergency room and, after some quiet conversation, she verified my relationship and put me on the phone.  "Mrs. Gray has expired.  Your father has just left for the funeral home."

     The word "expired" didn't stab me.  Subscriptions expire and can be easily renewed.  Dead?  She died?  Is that what they meant?  "Are you all right?  Is someone with you?"  "Yes," I answered; "no," I answered.  "Do you want to go someplace?  Can I call you a cab?"  "No," I answered, "no."

     I waited at the bus stop.  Not many buses run on this suburban street, giving me time to know where to go.  I wanted to go home.

     The wait for the bus was balanced at the other end of the ride by the walk to my father's house.  She is dead.  I had to realize that before I faced him. She is dead.  And this is grief.

     This grief I felt was not as shattering as I had imagined during the many philosophical discussions I had sat through with friends who had lost children, and parents, husbands, good friends. This grief didn't swell swiftly like the joy of touching a newborn's cheek, the excitement of riding down an expressway on a motorcycle, the warmth of welcoming out-of-town relatives into your home.  This grief was but a little bruise in my throat.

     My father had returned by the time I reached the house.  He enveloped me in his arms and the numbness I hadn't been aware of was released, replaced by the spreading bruise.  The sobs burst forth relieving some of the pressures of the pain.  He held me close and silently.  He knew what good friends we had been, my mother, his wife, and I.

     I pushed him back finally to see his suffering -- but the business end of death had already put a veneer on his lonliness.  He didn't mention my mother's death.  He talked about her burial.  I didn't ask.  And the phone rang.  The undertaker was calling to discuss her burial garb.  The phone was turned over to me.  I was now brought into the business of death.

     There was no question as to what she would wear.  She and my father had dropped in on us one Sunday afternoon in spring.  They were out pursuing their gracious Sunday ritual -- mass followed by dinner on the North Shore followed by visits to one or another of their beloved friends or offspring.  We were embroiled in our weekend ritual -- bathing dogs, or painting rooms, or chauffering children to softball games or band concerts, or recovering from ceiling cave-ins, bursting water pipes, burning cookies.

     She walked in that sunny Sunday in a white Qiella dress splashed with vibrant field flowers -- pinks, greens, royal blues, yellows.  She looked as though she had just been arranged by a florist.  I was in blue jeans and I wondered if ever I would achieve the grace and dignity this woman emitted. She was more beautiful than the pictures I had seen of her as a growing girl amidst her upper Michigan trees, more elegant that the movie queen we had made of her when she would visit her new grandchildren, posing proudly during our baby booming years.  She wasn't well, but her carriage and her inner joy were astounding.  Especially this spring afternoon dressed for life.

     I dressed her for life again in her flowered dress.

     When we brought her clothes to the funeral parlor, other decisions were awaiting us.  The coffin -- it must be wooden; she was a natural woman.  The flowers -- sprays of wild blossoms to match her dress, her life.  She had been in synchronization with her world.  Her funeral must reflect her.  It must be uncomplicated.  The death announcement...

     We must announce the death.  A death must be announced.  I wished it had been announced to me instead of its awareness slithering into my consciousness, picking apart my composure, threatening my stamina.  But if it had, I wouldn't have survived.  The human mind knows how to filter assaults.

     Death is stunning.  Grief creeps.  It advances slower, cuts deeper and lingers longer than any other human emotion.  For me it has been swallowed by growing family activities until it bursts out at the sight of a quiet little aged lady praying alone in a church.  "Someone," I scream inside, "love her, laugh with her, bring her flowers!"  Until I see a retired couple walking hand in hand down a city street.  "Don't go near my father, you two!" I shriek out noiselessly.  "Don't let him be reminded."  Until my daughter falls in love.  "Who wants to know this news?  Who wants to hear of this joy?"  My joy is smothered in my lonely grief.

     So this is grief.  It hurts more than I had imagined.