Here’s the link to Gerard’s obituary.
It’s not particularly long, considering how much he did in his life. And of course, like most obituaries, it doesn’t really convey the person himself in all his complexity and energy and vitality. Gerard’s blog was much better at doing that.
As for me, I have my memories of the entire person in what he liked to call “the world dimensional.” But memories are selective, and memories are a pallid substitute for the living, breathing person. As C. S. Lewis described in his book about mourning his wife, A Grief Observed, after the death of a loved one the person in the real world tends to be replaced by the person in the mind of the survivor, and the imagined person no longer has any separate agency or ability to act. There is just no getting around one’s grief over losing the actual person whom one can talk to, touch, smell, hear, be surprised by, laugh with, and share all the wonders of life on earth.
Last night, by chance when I was looking at some historic dress videos on YouTube, I came across one about Victorian mourning jewelry. Some of the jewelry was made of the hair of the deceased. I understand the impulse; at least I think I do. It comes from wanting to have some tangible and corporeal part of the loved person.
Many years ago, Gerard gave me a beautiful heart-shaped locket, and in it he put a tiny clipping of his hair. But perhaps five years later I noticed that the lock of his hair had fallen out and the locket was empty. I never replaced the hair with another clipping, although I could have done so. Why didn’t I? I don’t know; I just kept forgetting to do it, and anyway I had the real person to talk with and spend lengthy periods of time with and so why bother?
Do I wish I had it now? Perhaps I wish it a little bit. But it wouldn’t bring him back and maybe it’s just as well I don’t have that sort of relic. I did bring back a few things of his when I returned home from California. A couple of his hats – he liked to wear hats. A little decorative wooden box I once gave to him, which now contains odds and ends like his driver’s license. A Japanese print I purchased for him in an attempt to replace an older and more beautiful yet similar one that got burned when Paradise and his entire home was destroyed.
But looking at such things is bittersweet. And who really wants to get such gifts back, gifts given with love?
When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me a story. She said that her maternal grandparents had both died within a month of each other (in the 1870s), when her mother – my great-grandmother – was sixteen years old. My newly-orphaned great-grandmother wore mourning jewelry, as was the custom back then. One piece was a locket with a lily of the valley on it and a black background. I still have the locket, and it used to have the deceased couple’s photos in it but somewhere along the line one of the photos fell out (do you detect a pattern here?). My grandmother also showed me some of that hair jewelry, from the same era. It seemed very very strange to me at the time.
But after my grandmother died and then many years later my mother died, I couldn’t find the hair jewelry anywhere. Had my mother thrown it out? Probably. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Probably a good thing.
I think.
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
‘Tis like me now, but I dead, ’twill be more
When we are shadows both, than ’twas before…
–John Donne

