medulla oblongata
You flit through my thoughts, gracefully entwined in the folds of my brain. Down, deep where no light reaches, there’s you. You wait for quietness, for rest to come forth and demand to be dealt with. There is no escaping this work that I must do.
My broken heart comes as a complete surprise.
I no longer see you, in your baseball cap and your flannel shirts. I no longer see you with your big voice. I no longer see you, head bent over pieces of paper, your pen in hand making life spring where there was none. I can’t feel the warmth of your big hands. I see you small, I see you fragile, I see you without life. I hate that it is this way, today of all days.
Last year I sent you a father’s day card, with only my name signed on it. No words. Me, with all of my words, for you I had none. Today my words tumble over each other in a frenzied sprint to see which ones can reach you first.
I am heartbroken you won’t dance with me when I marry Clay. You’ll never see my house, or meet my dog, or know me. You will never know me. You will never watch Stephen grow through this time into his own, or see Deb become a teacher, or watch Kelsey become an astronaut ballerina veterinarian fairy. You will never fully grasp the strength of Mom, how bold and confident and kind and righteous she is. How she did this all on her own, of her own. You will never see me succeed.
In some small way, relief for your newly acquired lack of suffering makes this all more palatable.
But not today.
Today I mourn you. Today I wish I hadn’t seen you die, even though being there was the closest to God I have ever been. Today I busy myself with the mundane and the necessary to avoid the picture of you, motionless and gone. Because we had unfinished business, you and I. While it is all forgiven, it is not forgotten. Still, in your absence, I have to fold up the textiles of our history. Line up the hems and smooth them carefully to be packed away. I have to do that alone and today, the thought of that is just a little too much.
So, in all of these words that I reserved from you, held from you, hid from you….today the most important to reach you, are “I love you.”
I love you.
June 20th, 2010 at 2:54 pm
Ah, C, even in pain you write beautifully. I’m sorry for your loss, but proud of your strength. Xo
June 20th, 2010 at 3:00 pm
Christine, I grieve with you. The wound is raw for me today as well.
June 20th, 2010 at 4:03 pm
My dear friend, you honor him so much with this. Know that you are still adored, even if from so very far away . . .
June 20th, 2010 at 4:05 pm
I, too lost my father this year, but we had a very different relationship, with almost no unfinished business (in fact, I named a blog post close to the end “Nearly Finished Business”). He was old, nearly 93, and for some years I had been more like his parent than he mine. But it seems that whatever the dynamic between fathers and daughters, it is always something like no other. If you want to read a little about it all, here’s my eulogy for my father, the photographer, Jim Steinhardt: http://thesquashedbologna.blogspot.com/2010/03/goodbye-goodbye-goodbye-jim-steinhardts.html
June 20th, 2010 at 4:08 pm
I’m always glad that my father and I were able to bridge the hurts between and I am able to say those words. My only living memory of saying it to my mother is when she was already dead, and I’ve carried that always with me.
They know. I have to believe they always know.
June 20th, 2010 at 4:44 pm
Beautiful.
xoxo
June 20th, 2010 at 7:12 pm
Love, honey. Lots and lots of it.
June 20th, 2010 at 7:37 pm
You made me cry the ugly cry. And it was while I was eating ice cream. I didn’t even know that was possible. I’m sorry. I love you. I understand.
June 20th, 2010 at 8:40 pm
I hadn’t cried all day, too mad at Kelsey’s poor excuse for a father. I ignored all the families at church loving on their dads. I even told Mom, “This is my first Father’s Day without a dad and looked away. But it’s always at night when my grief for him surprises me. It’s quiet and I start thinking. I find myself extremely angered at him for all the things Kelsey has been cheated out of.. fishing trips, special pictures drawn just for her. Then I see him broken. I found a Little League team picture from when he coached..happy times for him. That is the picture of Dad I will keep in my heart and not the broken, suffering man we last saw. I love you with every fiber of my being my sisterand I am crying with you….
June 20th, 2010 at 8:51 pm
oh. i know this. exactly.
June 20th, 2010 at 9:47 pm
I’m so sorry that you have to feel this. Love to you, beautiful friend.
June 20th, 2010 at 10:06 pm
I’m sorry friend.
June 20th, 2010 at 10:21 pm
These are hard feelings to feel. I know.
June 21st, 2010 at 5:46 am
The journey is excruciating, but the destination becomes gradually more important.
June 21st, 2010 at 6:38 am
these thoughts float through my heart and mind, too, every father’s day. love you xoxo
June 21st, 2010 at 6:49 am
Simply beautiful.
June 21st, 2010 at 9:05 am
Nothing but hugs and love. Lots of both.
June 21st, 2010 at 10:25 am
I’m so sorry. For your loss and for this day. xx
June 21st, 2010 at 6:10 pm
I think it’s much harder when we have such mixed feelings for the person who died. It was the same with my dad. Sending a hug.
June 21st, 2010 at 6:26 pm
I agree with Woolie. I lost my dad when I was 16, but my parents had been divorced since I was 5. I rarely think of him, but I did Sunday. We missed so much.
Hugs to you. It will get better.
June 21st, 2010 at 8:28 pm
That is a lovely letter.
June 21st, 2010 at 11:39 pm
this was hard to read. i wish i was wise enough and grown up enough to have written this about my dad. maybe one day…
June 22nd, 2010 at 11:24 am
Oh, sweetie.
Love to you.
June 22nd, 2010 at 3:25 pm
This is how I feel every Mother’s Day. Every. Single. One.
Father’s Day, I have no problems with. Mother’s Day guts me. I’m so sorry for you and for him. He doesn’t know how awesome you are. His loss, really, but I know your heart doesn’t know that. Mine doesn’t either.
June 23rd, 2010 at 1:06 pm
This qualifies as edifying, I would say. But be gentle with yourself when love is not all you feel.
June 24th, 2010 at 4:53 am
It is what it is. And it is ok.
Big love.
June 24th, 2010 at 11:17 am
i’ve been putting off reading this because I knew it would make me cry… and it did.
love is powerful
June 25th, 2010 at 1:19 am
big smootchy kisses to you, my friend.
June 25th, 2010 at 3:19 pm
Putting my name here, not having the words to heal or repair, but wanting you to know I am here. Your Amanda.
June 25th, 2010 at 9:29 pm
You end with peace. I hope you’re feeling that fer reals in some corner of your being.
June 29th, 2010 at 11:07 am
I can only offer you hugs and love.
P.S. There is something for you over at my blog, gorgeous!!
July 2nd, 2010 at 12:55 pm
You have the biggest heart. For real.
July 6th, 2010 at 1:24 pm
“the textiles of our history”
damn.
Beautiful.
xo
July 10th, 2010 at 8:01 pm
I do believe he can hear you now. I do believe that.
July 20th, 2010 at 1:27 am
I lost my father when I was 8. He isn’t dead yet.
I am currently trying to find away of helping my daughters and their father to create a better bond.
How do you encourage your child to love the man you despise, despite his failings.
How do you show your husband that treating his children with the same indifference he treated you will end so much more horribly for him and them?
You have my condolences.
August 2nd, 2010 at 1:13 pm
Hi friend- you posted this while I was away and a serendipitous link at craftastrophe brought me back to it just now. What a lovely post the whole not always right but true section is my most favorite part. As I try to settle into the mental shifts that always throw me off kilter when life changes (vacation ending-summer ending-another teaching year in the near future), this post gave me some grounding. Thanks.
August 2nd, 2010 at 1:15 pm
Somehow my comment is on the wrong post- it was intended for the July 25 post