10 am Sunday January 26, 2020. A helicopter crashes in Calabassas, California. I am in Toronto stuffing five dollar bills into red envelopes.
I double check my head count, there was a pregnancy announcement at the last family gathering, wait that was in November, my numbers are good.
The family Chinese New Year’s dinner is a joyous time, we celebrate our roots, connect with the ones we only ever see once or twice a year and eat too much in pursuit of good luck. It’s a good time but also bittersweet. When the family gathers, I notice the missing parts as much as the newest arrivals, both make me catch my breath. I miss my dad fiercely. I miss his doppelgänger cousin-in-law who would give my heart a start when he walked into my peripheral view.
At 3:09 pm I see the first news of Kobe Bryant’s death. The denial and disbelief fuel the clicks, it can’t be true, right Google? NY Times? LA Times? But the confirmations layer on top of each other forming a paper mâché grotesquerie of truth, the details emerge like misshapen appendages. Five people. No seven. Father and child. An entire family. Teammates. No nine people total. But of course the celebrated name is the focus. He was an iconic champion, a hero. He represented so many things to so many people. Globally. The internet is awash in grief.
Parents are superheroes, the first we ever know. I remember the confusion learning my mom had another name, a mortal name. My dad had singular powers I could not imagine another kid experiencing at home. Over time reputations diminish, sometimes tarnish, and there’s more definition between the hero and the alter ego. But we always celebrate the hero in death. My heroes are both dead and I grieve for them almost daily. Not the fresh, overwhelming knock-your-breath-out-of-you and buckle-your-knees grief that the families affected by the crash are feeling, but the loss is always there. Some days the pangs are more acute than others. Some days a dull throb. But as time passes and the stages of grief improvise their timeline, I’ve leaned into the things that get me through. Practicing gratitude is a great antidote.
I’m almost at the 3/4 mark with my gratitude challenge and I can attest to the difference, sometimes subtle, sometimes giddying the practice has made. Reflecting on the things I’m grateful for each day lightens the cloudy haze of grief and other challenging emotions. Each thanks is a shot of light, chasing shadows from the corners and putting focus on what IS. Gratitude helps me shake off the torpor of what is no more and inspires me to create and fill the void.
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