Funeral for a friend

This week we lost a friend. Jim Tabor was an avid golfer a big time Red Sox fan, and the man kt and i considered to be our last Grandpa. He was the man my dad turned to when he needed a paternal role model, primarily because Jim could drink without turning ugly, and he could discipline without wielding a belt. But- my parents further observed- Mr. Tabor seemed to know that all kids needed to grow up healthy and successful was love and support. My parents made their decision that they would do their best to follow his example. That included trying to teach me that "home" is a place where you are loved and protected... That family members can be among your best friends... and friends are nothing more than extended family.

I came out to Jim and his family a few months before I came out to my parents, and a few years before I officially came out to my own grandparents. His response at the time changed the trajectory of my coming out process: "As long as you're still willing to give this old man a hug when you see him, it doesn't matter to me in the least." I know that if he and his wife had responded in a less accepting way- with quiet uncertainty, or a polite but awkward level of discomfort, I would have been less sure of how to proceed. I didn't realize until later that I had been testing the waters with Jim and Mazie, I was waiting to see if this ("I'm gay") news would change how loved ones treated me. It didn't change how he loved me at all, but it changed how much I loved and respected him. (Even more than before!)

When I brought Katy to the Tabors for the first time, she got drunk on all the love and acceptance. They were so happy to meet her and wanted to hear all about her. She said they were so kind to her because she arrived with me and she could see how much they loved me. But i told her that from my experience with the Tabors, if she had walked in off the street without any connection to me at all, it is likely they would have treated her the same way.

Mr. Tabor has been sick a lot in the last year. But his hospital stay was short- only a few weeks- and with so little warning, it's hard not to feel abused and robbed. Somehow, he is gone. And it's hard to feel the stinging reality of that. He's not gone from our hearts or our memories, of course, but memories are one-dimensional and watered-down... We'll never get to hear his laugh, or greeting from the door, or give/receive his hugs, or hear his eternally-optimistic spin on things again.

This, i guess, is the definition of mourning: it is a word that that describes not only the action but also the feeling associated with contemplating the void that a death creates and figuring how you will shift to bridge or fill that void.

Mourning blows.

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