It hits me when I’m standing in the record store, buying my son his first record player, that the reason I’ve procrastinated so hard on buying Christmas gifts is that this is triggering as fuck.
I’m in a store I was once a regular in. In the months before he died, wed’ been taking ballroom dance lessons together. He had always wanted to learn. I was taught as a child in North Dakota, where an adventurous gym teacher made us two-step and waltz to the country hits of the 90’s but he had never been taught. I dreamed of days we could swing dance together.
We had tried group classes and they didn’t take, Dave’s timing was always off and I couldn’t teach him. Every time I tried, it would dissolve into a fight. After we sold our store, he had started frequenting a record store in the suburbs because they had a fantastic jazz section and nobody recognized him. He saw a sign on a door for a dance studio above the shop and he talked me into it. Every Saturday for 5 weeks, we went to a lesson with our instructor and tried not to argue while Dave slowly learned the steps. His timing was still off, and I started wearing sneakers to protect my toes from being stomped. After each date, we’d get breakfast on the corner and spend time perusing the record store.
The 6th lesson he went to alone. It was the day I walked out.
Now it’s Christmas and I’m in the store again, wondering what became of the last two dance lessons we never used. I think we bought an 8 pack. I wonder if I could just go alone.
It clicks for me that of course this is triggering. I chose this store because they have the best turntable selection, and nobody recognizes me, but being in the space brings a flood of memories. I’m crying because he was a terrible dancer, but I still loved going to dance lessons. I’m crying because he’s not here to hook the turntable up. To show our son how it works. To sit on the floor with him and connect the wires. To argue with me about what brand to buy. To see the look on his face when he puts the vinyl on for the first time. He’s supposed to be here. They’re both left handed, and turntables are biased towards the righties of the world. How am I supposed to teach him how to cue with his left hand? Why do I have to teach him everything?
Last year I did the same thing, waiting until the last possible second to buy gifts. It felt numb and hollow. Christmas was hard and disappointing. This year feels like my skin is coated in gasoline and every store I walk into is filled with matches. Healing is learning the intricacies of where it hurts, diving in instead of avoiding, pushing on the bruises, and letting the record spin.