Spinning

Have you ever ridden the Scrambler at the fair? As the ride begins, I always hang onto the bar, keeping myself relatively still in my seat. This strategy works for several seconds as the ride picks up speed. For a while, it seems as if you have some control over your experience. Then the centrifugal force becomes more intense. Your butt starts to slide. You may maintain your grip, but everyone's body is inevitably mashed together against the outer wall of the car.

While considerably less fun than the Scrambler, this has been my experience with death in the family. We lost both my father and my grandmother this year. We planned funerals and wrote obituaries. We've sorted through their paperwork and clothes and jewelry and tools and housewares and even groceries. (What do you do with a dead man's flour? Throw it away? Give it away? Make a cake?) It all began as a series of tasks to be completed, some kind of grip we could maintain on the bar. Now we are slipping.

As my relatives and I succumb to the force that pushes us out of our seats and away from our center, I accept the fact that this is just something we are riding. We are not operating the controls. We don't know how long it will all last. Despite the breakneck unpredictability of life and death and grief, I am finding a lot of comfort in the people who will stay beside me and let me crash upon their shoulders. I am glad I am not alone. And I'm glad they will love me no matter what--even if I barf.