From 3/3/2021
I remember the early days of grief after Elliot died. Physicality was so important. I had lost my son’s life, his heartbeat. I had lost the touch, the smell, the vibrance of life, and everything else that was housed in Elliot’s body. My own body began to realize that it would never again feel his heartbeat against its chest.
Is a heartbeat unique like a finger print? I think it must be. A few days before Elliot died, I heard a man talk about Native American flutes. He said flute makers make each instrument for the player’s hand, and that each hand has a unique span between the fingers. Thus, no two flutes have the exact same sequence of pitches. Gone is Elliot’s unique pitch. My chest knows it will never feel the unique rhythm of his heart again.
After Elliot died, I hugged everyone. In particular, I sought out and would breakdown in the arms of other men. I remember my uncle coming to the house. He is a large man. I just cried and cried on his chest like a little boy. It was his heartbeat, I think. I have known it since the time I was born. I had not felt it in years, probably not since my grandmother’s funeral, but my body knew it and I felt safe in his arms.
My body was searching for Elliot, but could not find him.
There were reasons men were so important for me in those days. First, men are fathers. There were men I did not know as well as, or as long as, my uncle – but it did not matter. I broke down in their arms too. Other fathers could imagine my pain and I could feel it in their bones.
I also clung to the strength of other men. I could face the horror that was in front of me and feel protected against the pack of wolves that were lurking outside my home during those brief moments when another man held me up. It was good to know that others were protecting my family. My household had been invaded and my son had been drug off and eaten. I could not guard my family; I had already been ambushed.
Finally, my body was still searching for Elliot and the embrace I would never feel again. My body realized before my mind could comprehend, I would not know how his body would change as he filled out in his twenties. I would never smell his scent again, never feel his grip in my hands. His grip is gone forever.
This is why I wept in the arms of other men. My heart knew they felt my pain. My mind knew friends were protecting my family and home. And my body knew that the man I was holding was not my son.
