In my daily blogroll, I came across Laughing Squid’s post about comedian Glen Tickle, whose Netflix special is in tribute to his late brother.
I can picture myself tuning in. I picture my own brother looking on from wherever he is, perhaps laughing along in that laugh I can never unhear, visiting me later on in my dreams to thank me for keeping him around a little longer in my thoughts.
It should be the kind of show I’m into. As a fellow human who lost a brother too soon, as someone who knows that grieving is messy and weird and difficult, I should find comfort and solace in sharing someone else’s experience. I should find a quiet hour and a box of tissues and dig in.
But as a human who knows that grieving is messy and weird and difficult, I don’t know that I have it in me.
And I’ve hung out long enough with Grief to know that Should has absolutely no business being anywhere in the room.
So it’s possible that I might watch the special, and it’s possible that it might offer solace and validation. It’s also possible I’ll pop in a DVD of Airplane, and think fondly on the guy who would text me random lines from that movie, who had crazy amazing dimples, who reduced everybody’s first names to single syllables, and who left this world way too soon.
Of course I’m serious about that. And don’t call me Shirley.