Empty Chair

"What a great party." I've heard that at my house for decades now. It always rings in my ears as I walk around finding half-full glasses of this and that, hidden plates of food, and putting chairs back in the rooms from whence they came. I even remember a party guest in the distant past who spent the evening eating one half of a bag of Oreos, sticking the other side to various pieces of furniture with the creamy filling. It was a great party. Now it's a great mess.
For some time I have been circling these issues of mortality without confronting that which is most central: surviving. That's cleaning up after a party - that's what surviving is like. I have long maintained that weddings and funerals have a lot in common. Neither occasion is truly dedicated to the ones in the box. The party is for those outside the box. To that end, it's time to come clean about this whole deal about grief and loss: the people left standing at the graveside are the heroes. They are the ones who get up the next day and move on with their lives and try to move ahead.
Where do we go after we die? I'm not sure it matters as much as where we go after someone we love dies. My mother is a survivor. She taught me what it means to make peace with tragedy and loss. When Darren died, she had to make the calls. When my father died, we all landed at her house to make sense of the next steps. I remember one particular October 24, when I was desperately in need of someone to wallow in my grief over Darren's passing (at that point some years in the past), I called up my friend Clark. As we drove around Boulder that night, I found myself making grand gestures of angst and sorrow. In the middle of this pity reverie, I was struck by the realization that Clark was no stranger to loss himself and I here I was acting as if there was no one else on the planet who could possibly understand my pain.
Turns out, Clark had a very good understanding of sorrow. The older I get, the bigger that club seems to get. There are parties going on every day, all over the world, where the guest of honor is no longer able to attend. Still - there's almost always a laugh to share, or a moment of triumph in being alive. Clark spoke at my father's funeral. He said some amazing things. He's a hero. My mother had us all over to her house afterward, and even though her sons came back late because they insisted on having a cheeseburger together, she opened the doors of her house to the survivors.
Sometimes I lose sight of the crowded room around me when I focus on the one empty chair.