Ripples of Loss
Last night.
I was sick for the first time since Carlos died. Where was he? I anticipated gloom until I realized that Buenos Aires’ pharmacies are first aid stations.
I would not have anticipated what happened when the pharmacist was trying to help me…!
This morning.
I am at Dos Escudos; someone brought a baby in his carriage. No wonder I like this Buenos Aires’ ambiance with a mix of people of all ages here—we are all neighbors here.
Martín, the server, has been spying on my typing, so he’s figured out that I speak English. I note he likes to befriend me. Although servers are very nice in this city, Martín slightly crosses a barrier—acting with more than the usual familiarity.
I am feeling naughty …
Therapy.
Ringing the bell of office 34 marks the beginning of my weekly internal adventure.
I ask Dr. Novelli if I am working through my grief as I should. “I’ve been wondering. How would I know? … How far in the stages of grief process am I?” … I learn how uninformed I am.
The fear of forgetting Carlos has hounded me since he died. When I don’t cry I feel afraid that I will eventually forget him. My anxieties
are natural ripples of grief. Yet I learn unconscious dynamics behind the fear of forgetting Carlos.
As I exit the office I walk along the narrow hallway on the 3 rd floor and call the “miniature “elevator. I gave it that name because it is cozy enough for one and a half persons. Today, it is just adequate for me and the ripples of guilt that undulate in circles around me
I walk under the tall tipa trees that border the sidewalks of Buenos Aires. I remember a friend said to me: ‘Being alone must have been difficult for you.’ She cried. I could not cry. I felt guilty that no tears rolled down my cheeks. After this experience with Pamela, I wrote a poem.
She leans over and
hugs an earlier me.
My story having
broken her down.
