A Familiar Ache
It has been 2 years and some months since my father passed away, and 3 years now for Michael. After that time I can see, that while we can be happy, it is going to color everything. Forever. You don't get better. You heal in lots of ways, you move forward, but it's there. And it gets your when you least expect it.
I miss my dad. He was quiet and we didn't talk a lot. He loved by doing. I look am my house and there are just things that need to be done. He would do them when he came to visit. He always had a creative solution to the little odds and ends that needed repairs. There were always little chores, the ones busy parents don't have time to work on, and those chores are still waiting. When I look at them I think, my dad would know what to do about that. He would stock my pantry with plastic wrap, and extra aluminum foil so that I never ran out. I remember the first time I had to go buy foil. It made me so sad. Aluminum foil. I nearly cried in the check out line. It is there in the small specks of daily life.
With Michael, for me, it is what he is missing. I remember the first time I let the kid's order coke at dinner at a restaurant and I cried. It was one of the first new things that they were doing that he would never know about. It was a first step into our life without him. A first step for me making parenting decisions on my own. Small, but so significant.
Recently I picked my 12, almost 13-year-old, daughter up from school. The sun was shining in the car just right, and she had her seat tilted back, and was rambling on about her day - in the cute and kooky way she does. I looked over and caught a glimpse of her that took my breath away. Now, you moms of babies, toddlers, preschoolers, that probably happens to you many times in a day, but when they get this big, and sassy, and, well…..these moments don't come as often. But, I looked at her with her brace face, pimply forehead, and long wavy hair, and thought she was just so beautiful. I could feel my heart about to burst. And then I thought, would he recognize her, she looks so different, so grown up? Of course, he would, I told myself, but it might take him a moment. Three years, so much change! And right there, in the bliss, a familiar ache. It's there, even in a beautiful moment.
Then, the other night, I made a homemade salad dressing that Michael used to make in the same little bottle he used to use. My son, who just doesn't remember enough, practically jumped out of his chair. He pointed, and exclaimed, "That is dad's dressing, the kind he used to make?". It was both a question and a statement. He happily followed it with, "I totally remember that". He doesn't remember nearly enough. I am thankful for each little thing. Even the salad dressing shaker. But, at bedtime, he said he had been remembering things about his dad, and that while it made him happy, it made him sad too. Such a burden for one so young.
It makes me mad. Why us? Why anyone? I have a student who lost her mother this past summer. And another who lost his mother just weeks ago. Why them? It all makes my heart ache, and I think maybe it is because I know. I know it won't go away. They will be happy. They will be okay. But it will always be there, that little bit of sadness, that steals just a little of the bliss.
I miss my dad. He was quiet and we didn't talk a lot. He loved by doing. I look am my house and there are just things that need to be done. He would do them when he came to visit. He always had a creative solution to the little odds and ends that needed repairs. There were always little chores, the ones busy parents don't have time to work on, and those chores are still waiting. When I look at them I think, my dad would know what to do about that. He would stock my pantry with plastic wrap, and extra aluminum foil so that I never ran out. I remember the first time I had to go buy foil. It made me so sad. Aluminum foil. I nearly cried in the check out line. It is there in the small specks of daily life.
With Michael, for me, it is what he is missing. I remember the first time I let the kid's order coke at dinner at a restaurant and I cried. It was one of the first new things that they were doing that he would never know about. It was a first step into our life without him. A first step for me making parenting decisions on my own. Small, but so significant.
Recently I picked my 12, almost 13-year-old, daughter up from school. The sun was shining in the car just right, and she had her seat tilted back, and was rambling on about her day - in the cute and kooky way she does. I looked over and caught a glimpse of her that took my breath away. Now, you moms of babies, toddlers, preschoolers, that probably happens to you many times in a day, but when they get this big, and sassy, and, well…..these moments don't come as often. But, I looked at her with her brace face, pimply forehead, and long wavy hair, and thought she was just so beautiful. I could feel my heart about to burst. And then I thought, would he recognize her, she looks so different, so grown up? Of course, he would, I told myself, but it might take him a moment. Three years, so much change! And right there, in the bliss, a familiar ache. It's there, even in a beautiful moment.
Then, the other night, I made a homemade salad dressing that Michael used to make in the same little bottle he used to use. My son, who just doesn't remember enough, practically jumped out of his chair. He pointed, and exclaimed, "That is dad's dressing, the kind he used to make?". It was both a question and a statement. He happily followed it with, "I totally remember that". He doesn't remember nearly enough. I am thankful for each little thing. Even the salad dressing shaker. But, at bedtime, he said he had been remembering things about his dad, and that while it made him happy, it made him sad too. Such a burden for one so young.
It makes me mad. Why us? Why anyone? I have a student who lost her mother this past summer. And another who lost his mother just weeks ago. Why them? It all makes my heart ache, and I think maybe it is because I know. I know it won't go away. They will be happy. They will be okay. But it will always be there, that little bit of sadness, that steals just a little of the bliss.
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