I (Jeff) wrote the reflection below for Max's memorial service as I knew I would be unable to stand up to talk or share without uncontrollable weeping. I wrote this down and printed copies for the tables instead. Reflecting now just before the 2 year anniversary of his death, I still cry freely just to be here posting again. The first line is still exactly correct - I miss him and I want him back.
My community is largely a church-going community with strong faith and belief that we'll be reunited again. That vision of the future is missing from this reflection. The reasons is quite simple - in that moment of loss it doesn't matter at all. In all the early months (or however long it takes) there is only loss and longing which has a permanence stamped on it that makes hope of any kind too distant to be of comfort. All grief journeys are different - any book or counselor will tell you so. Many of the feelings are the same, but they come at different times and with different intensities. For me, in these early weeks and months I was utterly bereft. In time, I have taken some comfort from hope of a future reunion, even as I said I mostly just miss this wonderful person and I want to hug him and tell him things and live life with him. There are a lof of odd feelings in grief, and worrying what the intensity of my worldly, time-bound grief says about my faith. The two are not incompatible. The people we love deeply we love without reserve and that means grieving profoundly. As the quote from a Marvel show (of all places) says so well...
What is grief if not love preserving?
And so now I have some space for hope of reunion, but on many days it doesn't matter. When I use his knife, I like to hold it but it makes me sad. When I hear his music it mostly makes me want to have him suggest something new. When I come across something cool about sound production and sound effects, I wish I could send it to him. Even when I use the nail clippers I took from his house the weekend he died, they have an emotional resonance, or even resin, that sticks to me in that moment and causes me to reflect and feel what is now both missing him and slowly being happy I had the chance to know him.
Memorial Letter to Max
The most urgent thing for me is - I want him back. Nothing replaces that, nothing describes better the yearning and the pit in my stomach better. He is not around, and he should be. I didn't even talk with him directly all that often; we sent a lot of text messages - but I could have. And I thought about how he was doing all the time - and now I know there is nothing to think about but memories and what might have been. This is what hurts - and why I like the description of a "hole in my heart". What once filled me with expectation - a different type of yearning, one accompanied by happy anticipation - can now only be satisfied by probing the contours of that hole in my heart.
I loved Max's enthusiasm for learning. He loved to tell me about what he was learning about sound, or figuring out about music. I love that when I sent him a recipe, he said "Oh shit!" in enthusiasm and then asked about all the ingredients. I love that he was always happy. This wasn't really always true, though as a younger child I would be hard pressed to find a happier person. Max was however always a light person who rarely brought melancholy to our interactions. I think about his childhood, and look at the pictures, and watch the videos - and that boy is always smiling and playing.
He had an imagination beyond anything I can fully describe. We spent so much time with his toys creating adventures I have long forgotten - but I remember that he was always ready for more. I love that he once tried to lock me in his room so he could have me all to himself after Lily was born. I love that he once drew me a picture of how I had hurt him when I bumped his nose with my head. He couldn't quite say it, but he could hand me the picture and melt my heart. I love that I had to break it to him that Santa Claus wasn't real, because Max was getting too old - and that his disappointment may have been the most innocent thing I have ever seen. He pouted in his room and said, truly heartbroken, "There is no magic in the world".
I love that in so many old pictures, Max looks like he is trying to fit in, trying to create a smile, throw hand signs, or just follow the rules and pose. In all the later pictures he is the coolest, most at home person there. He looks at the camera as if to say, "You know you wish you could be me", or he just shows pure joy on his face.
Some of my memories are of the surly teenager who refuted everything anyone ever said. I renamed him Contrary Contrawise during this time. I love that boy too. He is the same - the playful pigtail puller was partially born of that rebellious adolescent. One of his friends told me that Max would interrogate people in the kitchen about whether they were fans of Wu Tang Clan - and when they said yes he would challenge them "bullshit, name them.. ALL". That is the same Max who made sure he had better answers for everything - toned down by age and wisdom, but still there.
I love that he found a home in Colorado that was totally outside our experience of him. He grew up into a young man there - not all the way, but in ways that make me proud. I wish like mad that he could have finished that journey, and not have been cut short before the goal. Yet, I love that he loved, and that he adventured, and that he cooked, and that he learned, and that he was loved. Nowhere more than in my heart.
Max first taught me how to love with a larger heart. I clearly remember when he was born that I made a conscious and clear decision about how I would step in front of a car for him without hesitation. It was so clear, and such a new feeling, but fully determined. Someone outside of myself who meant so much more to me than me. The type of love that I think only comes from parenthood. And Max taught me that first. As our first child, he was first in many things - which meant also that we practiced on him. Even up to navigating the big life decisions like moving to Colorado, we were in practice. We second guess ever letting him out of our sight now - but that is silly. Max taught us how to be proud of a boy who makes up his own mind and chases his own dreams. We are so proud of the life he had and the friends and love that he made. How could we have stood in the way of that? It's easy for me to review all kinds of other parenting mistakes and failures. We make them still with Lily and Gus. I wish I could regret a few more with Max.
Now Max, you are frozen in time. This is it - your path is set and while it tears my heart out to know no more of your story, it is a story I think I can be proud of, and one I know that I learned deeply from, and one that I loved having the opportunity to be on with you.
I love you Max, and will miss you forever. Dad.