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Emotional Intimacy

Prologue: This writing is one of five produced while participating in an OLLI – Tucson class, Writing for Self-Discover, Spring 2023. This was the 2nd in the series.


I was 14 and naïve, but about to experience a real-world event I did not choose. Sheltered, swaddled in religious dogma from birth. Member of a family lacking emotional intimacy. The Voices In My Head will not let go. During the night they speak, reminding me of days gone by, and daily, multiple times, they whisper, write.


So, I write…


It started out as a typical Sunday morning; up early, ate breakfast, got dressed and off to Church, Sunday school class with peers, and worship service, songs and prayers, communion, collection plate passed, and the sermon, either thou shalt not or thou shalt, the invitation, then home.


Not today. Everyone was ready to go this April morning. It appeared to be a warm spring morning, sun shining, mid-sixties, no galoshes or heavy coats required.

The phone rang and Dad answered it, listened and after a muted conversation hung-up. Then, without emotion announced, his dad died during the night, and we needed to go to the Farm.


I did not know where the Farm was located, been there multiple times, but to an adolescence sitting in the backseat, it seemed miles and miles away. I know we were close when we turned from the paved roadway to a dirt road. We arrived, entered the house and, to be honest, I recall only snippets of conversations. I had never been in this situation and knew not how to behave and no one was offering any input; just kept quiet, my normal response to everything in life.


Viola, I never remember calling her grandma, already dressed, hair combed, and by all appearances, looked as if one was going to work. I remember her speaking with Dad, but the only thing she said that still sticks with me today is, “When I rolled over this morning and saw him, I knew he had died during the night in his sleep.” Conversations continued, but either I could not hear, or they just did not register. I sat.


I engaged in only one conversation, this with “uncle,” Frederick. He sat nearby. Quiet. Eyes down. Somber, which was out of character for this talkative, outgoing personality. On the floor between us was a toolbox opened, currently used as a tackle box.


“What’s the box for?” I asked.


He looks up briefly, “Dad was taking me fishing today, before this happened.”

Two thoughts crossed my mind. I had never heard him use the word “Dad,” and I did not know what to say. So, we both sat, eyes down, waiting.


Eventually, we went home, no conversations, just silence or whispers I was not meant to hear from the backseat. I was to be seen, not heard.


Two days later, my dad instructed me to dress in my Sunday go-to-church attire. We were going to the funeral home for visiting hours. I did not know what that meant. I cannot recall, but at age 9, I don’t think my little sister went. She may have gone to Grandma Thomas’ house.


We traveled in silence. Upon arrival, proceeded into the Ness Funeral Home. Mom signed a book, we entered a larger room where chairs rested along the walls with the casket on the opposite side of the room from the entranceway. We sat down. No sounds beyond an occasional whispered conversation. Individuals would sporadically approach the casket, mumble a few words, some wiped tears away, some would gently touch his hand, and one leaned over and gently kissed his forehead which I learned later was for some a way of saying goodbye, while others just turned away, and returned to their seat.


In time, one of my parents directed me to approach the casket. Alone. And say goodbye.


Heart racing, I slowly approached, stopped, looked in and saw a person in a suit that did not appear natural; I did not recognize this person. I mean, it was him, but not in overalls and work boots, cheerful, animated, … I turned and returned to my seat without making eye contact with anyone.


I hadn’t seen my dad for a while and wondered where he was. He reappeared and took a seat nearby; I figured out he had been outside on the porch and once I gained a little knowledge about life and death, realized he was outside, alone, grieving. Crying, I could not tell. He hid his emotions well. We sat in silence. Occasionally, someone would stop by to express their condolences. I sat not knowing who these people were, neither their names nor their relationship to Scott. A name I had never heard before.


Eventually, we went home, no conversations, just silence or whispers that again I was not meant to hear from the backseat. That was that.


From what I saw, death was the end, acknowledged, last stop before judgement day, feelings hidden, stuffed, no tears shed, no stories shared.


My Dad never talked much about family, his parents, and extraordinarily little about his siblings. I think that is why I spent time last year pulling photos, old newspaper clippings, reviewing information, and authoring stories based on memories.


The males I emulated on both sides of the families were stoic, feelings expressed behind closed doors. I learned this lesson well. When my father died, no tears. Promised, should I have a son, I would not pass this characteristic forward. When we get together, we hug, when we separate, we hug, still for me feels unnatural.

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