Yesterday

Yesterday I hated my job. I sat there listening to the customers, taking their payments, showing concern about their problems, smiling at their jokes, being helpful or funny as the situation called for it, being what they expected, and inside I hated my job, hated being at the office, hated listening to them, hated pretending that everything was normal while my aunt sat in her home in Tulsa and tried to make sense of her devastated life.

Later my boss's son and a couple of people who work with him dropped by, and I was so funny. I made them laugh, made them shake their heads at my ability to wisecrack, made them think that I was happy. Until they were leaving and I blurted out that my uncle had died in a car accident and they were shocked and said they were sorry and they glanced at each other not sure how to deal with this tragedy that had suddenly intruded in their pleasant afternoon. They left soon after, and I finished my day, closing out the accounts, rolling the phones to our answering service, closing the safe, making the deposits, and I drove home after a long, hard day at work. Because I'm a working man, a paycheck slave, and that's what we do.

Last night I sat in my recliner and channel surfed, trying to find anything that would absorb my attention, something that would require me to focus on something besides loss. There was nothing on. I got up and finished decorating my Christmas tree. I had thought that I would follow some sort of theme this year, maybe only use the gold or silver ornaments or only the college-themed snowmen and football helmets or the ornaments featuring attractions around my town. Instead I put everything on, nearly every branch receiving some sort of ornament, snowman, bow, bell, star, angel, globe, icicle, until the tree groaned with the weight. Then I sat out my Nativity sets, careful to arrange the figurines so that everyone could see baby Jesus if, of course, plastic and wooden eyes could see. I cleaned up the mess and put the empty boxes back in the garage.

Then I went to bed and lay awake for a long time, not thinking or trying to not think, and fell asleep sometime after midnight. I didn't dream. Or if I did, I don't remember them.

Today I went back to work and opened the office. I mailed a card to my aunt and ordered a plant to be delivered to her house. Because that's how we deal with death, you know. We send plants, cards, bring over casseroles, dress in black, cry, weep, and somehow get up the next day and go to work because life doesn't stop, life doesn't care, it keeps going no matter how much we scream for it to stop, to give us a moment, a breath of time to recover our sanity.

My Uncle Everett thought I was funny. He thought I was bright. He thought it was great that I had published a book. He was family and he loved me.

And I loved him.