I found it impossible to write after Jane died. Her death, her not being there anymore—not seeing her face, not hearing her voice—had a numbing effect on me. I was out of it all the time. A deep sadness fell over me, a depressing fog that stayed with me day and night, weekdays and through the very long weekends. When I finally tried to write again, the pages were so awful, I didn’t even try to get them published.
When my grandfather had died back in Newburgh, I’d felt something like this. I remember going to my grandparents’ house after he died, walking in the deep woods where I used to tell stories to myself as a spacey little kid, unable to cry about Pop’s death. I could not cry. For years and years, I could not cry. Could not, even when I desperately wanted to.
But after Jane died, I cried every day. This went on for a year, maybe more than a year. Sometimes I’d force the tears to come. Late at night in our apartment on Central Park West, I would put on a favorite song of ours. I thought of it as the pleasure of grieving. I’m not sure pleasure is the correct word. Maybe it’s relief, the relief of grieving, of being able to feel something, even intense sadness.
Whatever it is, I have never been able to really say goodbye to her.
Goodbye, Janie.
It still doesn’t work.