I am laid low with grief. In the moments when I'm not tending to my boys, I oscillate between disbelief and shock, still - I can't believe that we're never going to see Cousin Al again, that he is really and truly gone. That a life and spirit that was so big, and touched so many people (seriously, how many people would come to my memorial?) could be taken so quickly. I can almost convince myself that it's not true, and then I replay that phone call from Momma D and I'm taken back to that moment, a moment I'm still reeling from.
I still feel with every atom of my being that this is profoundly unfair. I know the purpose of a memorial is to focus on that person's life, and the many, many ways that he touched other people and their lives were made better for knowing him. But I am raw with the injustice of this, and the memorial and the many speeches that were a testament to what a great spirit Al was and is still, only served to flay me anew, to lay bare the great, raw wound that is living with the knowledge that my kids will never be able to have their, giant, tattooed Uncle Al show them how to take things apart, the finer points of metal and punk, where to get good barbecue in Nashville, and how to siphon gas and be a bada**.
He was so sweet. A faithful commenter on my pathetic Instagram feed consisting of pictures of my kids and food. So interesting, well-read, learned, and accepting. I'm going to miss him so much.