The Characters of Loss

"You give me the slip between garlic and lilies, as if this is what comes of my unprotected loves..."

This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is about more than just a thing that goes away.

I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.

Of course it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.

I know it's just a stupid set of car keys, but sometimes even little losses can represent a lot more than it seems at first blush. In Sarah Barber's case, the lost ring revealed failures in love. In my case, there's an irritating little voice criticizing me for doing something stupid. Barber chose to write a poem, but another way to process loss is by writing a scene.

The first step is to identify the emotion, or voice, that surfaces. Maybe it's grief, or embarassment. Maybe it's anxiety or even fear. Give it a name. Describe it. Big and dark? Small but slimy? Does it pester you like a mosquito buzzing around your ear?

Then write a scene with you and this new character. Let the emotion have a role, play a part. Give it something to do. Process the scene as though you were in it, too, interacting. Then, as your scene comes to a close, find a way to eliminate the character from the rest of your story.

In my story, I might decide to call my critical voice Wilma. She might be tall and brassy, with thick lipstick and long nails, gaudy clothes and a husky voice. I might let Wilma hound me for a little while longer about those car keys, but then I think I'd go on a little errand with her. I'd let her ride along with me to get a new set of car keys made, and then, just as I was climbing back in my car, I'd quickly lock the doors. That's right, I wouldn't let Wilma back in. I'd peel out of the parking lot, leaving her in the rain in my rear window, all alone, and in so doing I'd eliminate that critical voice from my life and get past the lost car keys.