Good grief

“I often begin a story with the intention of making it brighter & gayer than usual; but the question of conscience soon comes in; & it does not seem right, even in novels, to wilfully belie one’s own views. All comedy, is tragedy, if you only look deep enough into it.”

― Thomas Hardy, Letter sent to John Addington Symonds in 1889

My brother, Jeff, died at the end of July.

And, ever since, I’ve been thinking about grief, humour – and trees.

Jeff’s soulmate, Sheri, together with the kids, planted a tree in the yard this week to remember him.

For me, the most tormenting part of grief is pondering what’s no longer possible: The shared family dinners, fishing weekends, beach vacations, old-timer hockey tournaments, and those little late-night moments of whisky-truth.

When I contemplate certain trees, I can be overcome with a similar feeling.

This does, however, depend on the tree.

Saplings are kind of like tadpoles – you look at them with the knowledge that only a lucky few will ever make it to maturity.

Adolescent trees – those eight to fourteen foot leafy, lanky, puberty-laden possibilities – well, when you think about them, they can break your heart. They’re all promise – and of absolutely no current use or aesthetic value. I know it’s highly unlikely I will ever sit beneath their shade or be humbled by their majestic grandeur. Those are gifts that belong to future generations. And, sadly, I know for certain that Jeff will not come by and appreciate their seasonal growth and gradual transformation.

Adolescent tree

That’s because trees exist on an entirely different timeline. They play the long game. Tree metabolism is such that, in comparison, we humans must seem like mosquitos living a buzzing, brutally short existence.

That is, unless of course, what I told Jeff turns out to be true.

Near the end, at his bedside, I confidently told my brother that the flesh and the spirit are distinct. I’ll admit to having said it with more certainty than I truly feel, but I definitely wasn’t lying. Jeff, however, remained unconvinced.

His old-soul nephew, Taylor, told me there are two days that a person passes. The first is the obvious one. The second is the last time someone thinks of them and mentions their name.

Since my daughter, Christal, passed a few years ago, every Monarch fluttering by is a startling reminder. For Uncle Bill, who passed a few years before that – it’s shooting stars that solicit successive waves of melancholy and wonder.

Thus far, for Jeff, it’s when I consider a tree. I know it will take some time but, eventually, I hope to feel his presence and keep him alive every time we laugh.

Because Jeff made people laugh – a lot. His spontaneous expressions are legendary, unfiltered, and hilarious truth-zingers. And – as those who have long pondered the depths and origin of humour have proposed – “comedy is simply tragedy plus time.” (They say it might have been Steve Allen - could have been Carol Burnett who came up with that. I’m fine either way.)  

Jeff, years ago, delivering zingers at our wedding

Case in point: This week, Sue and I gather with a dozen family and friends in an old, forested cemetery for the internment of the ashes of another Aunt and Uncle who have long since passed. We’re talking years and years. Following a few touching remembrances, a family friend asks if anyone would like to say a prayer.

There’s a prolonged, awkward silence. People look at one another – each expecting someone else to step up.

Finally, despite a lifetime of spotty church attendance, Sue courageously offers to lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.

And after a promising start, the scene descends into a moment that Jeff would have relished.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; two all-beef patties; special sauce; lettuce, cheese; pickles, onions; on a sesame seed bun… Amen”

As I begin to crack up – that special suppressed (and not at all appropriate under the circumstances) laugh – I see a vision of my brother, his arms crossed, leaning against an old growth Maple, and smiling ear-to-ear. His devilish smile. He approves – and we’re going to retell this story many, many times.

Jeff’s devilish smile. He brought out the humour in us all.

I think about the new tree that Sheri and the kids planted and I pray that, in time, under its boughs, people think of Jeff, mention his name, and find many more reasons to laugh.