Carry That Weight

As I had blogged earlier this week, the family of one of my colleagues suffered a tremendous loss - a man, his wife, and their 14 year-old daughter were killed in a fiery crash. When I attended the memorial service (out of professional and personal respect), I really didn't expect to be super-emotional; after all, I was several levels removed.

Of course, it turns out the man (my colleague's brother-in-law) was a major, I mean major Beatles fan...and they played their music. And that hit me hard.

First, I love the Beatles - my mother owned all of their records (including a Vee-Jay album!) up until Sgt. Pepper I have no animus towards them - heck, I wanted to be John Lennon when I grew up, and can remember where I was when Lennon was shot. (In the back seat of my aunt Bette's car, having picked Mom up from work, and having a glass Pepsi bottle clunking against my foot as the news came over the radio).

Cut to July 8, 2001 - my aunt Bette had just died of a swift, sudden bout of ovarian cancer. (Just that Christmas Eve, she had suffered a heart attack, and I drove my mom in a car with no working odometer, speedometer, or fuel gauge, and I believe the headlights were powered by Duracells). I had just come back from Chicago (I had arranged to visit my aunt, and she died four hours before my flight), and was preparing to fly back out for the funeral. Most of the time, I was the calm, good son, the strong man who helped his family through a tough time.

Driving down Union to Lindell, I was listening to the local oldies station, which began playing the last two songs on Abbey Road. The lyrics, which I probably have heard umpteen times, now seemed to take on a new meaning:

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Boy, you gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

I never give you my pillow
I only send you my invitation
And in the middle of the celebrations
I break down

Boy, you gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

Just then, I couldn't keep up the wall - as I drove to (presumably) some
Metropolis meeting, I broke down and cried.

Cut back to yesterday: hearing all that Beatle music (and I don't normally associate it with my aunt) brought the grief, the sorrow, flooding back. Although the rest of the congregation mourned the lost family (and I have to admit, I readily empathized), I also felt the loss of my aunt in a way which I hadn't in years.

There was a lot of talk about getting back in touch with people you missed, of "hugging the ones you love a little more tightly". Although I can do that with some of my friends, I know several others whom I cannot get in touch with. (One of them - someone I care about - would be hurt by my attempt. Most of the others are a case of needing more time and room).

After that, I had made plans to meet friends and do The Lot, but somehow, I just didn't have the energy or the will.

Maybe this is the lesson - that even the most negative of experiences have the power to remind us of what we have, and that even in our hour of darkness, there will be someone standing next to us, speaking words of wisdom...let it be.