I Miss Him Swell, I Do

A month is not a long time to miss someone. Not really. There were times when I went a month without calling Dad or visiting. These times came after we moved to Greensboro and left him and Mom in Atlanta. That was the beginning of our separation after day upon day of hanging out, raising my babies.

All my life I wanted time with Dad. The three of us kids would be forced to steal what minutes we could with him- often by accompanying him on his various errands- visits to shut-ins, communion to parishioners in the hospital, trips to the grocery store or hardware store. We were content to sit alone in the car for hours, waiting, just to spend a few precious moments talking with him on the ride to or from his destination.

When he retired and they moved south to be closer to my young family, I suddenly had everything I'd ever wished for from him. Dad immersed himself in our lives, pitching in to help me with the kids while my then husband was working, puttering around my house fixing things or constructing monuments...

One time he arrived to find me busily nailing twigs together in the backyard. He watched for a few minutes then said, "What are you doing?" I said, "Building a trellis." He shook his head. "I don't think that's gonna hold up," he said. "Want some help?" The result was a lattice arbor, covered in four varieties of clematis with an attached swing. The neighborhood called it The Monument because they all knew it was Dad's way of saying he loved us.



On another occasion I wanted to build a fountain I'd seen in a magazine. It was made out of Terra Cotta pots and we had to drive almost an hour away to find all the materials needed to build the damned thing. My memory of that trip was not of the end result. What I remember is that I was standing a good fifty feet away from Dad and the boys, who at the time were like 2 and 4, when I turned around to hold up a piece of black tubing. The three of them were standing by a huge fountain, making anything more than gesture and sign language impossible.

As I held up the pipe and Dad squinted to inspect it from all those yards away, he forgot the two little boys behind him. As I watched they both walked to the edge of the huge pool that framed the fountain, clasped their hands behind their backs and slowly bent forward to dunk their heads in the water. They looked like the little bird toys that perch on the edge of a glass and with a tiny shove it dives down into the water.

By the time Dad caught on and I'd reached them, the boys were soaked and blissfully proud of themselves. What could we do but laugh?

When John got laid off and we had to move to Greensboro it was the end of an idyllic era. Gone was the house on Lake Lanier, the nights out on the sailboat, the afternoons spent floating in the cove on rafts, the dinners and parties. It was all over.

Until they moved once again to the water, this time four hours away in New Bern. It wasn't an every day existence but Dad was so obviously overjoyed to see us we couldn't bear to stay away any more than we absolutely had to. But sometimes soccer season prevented our visits, or life got in the way, and it was more than a month between visits.

Dad and I don't like to talk on the phone. It's just not the same and so time would pass without a word. But once we were all together in one place, the magic just seemed to happen all over again. As the eldest Unnamed One said, "Grandaddy was New Bern."

So in this brief month since Dad died, I have grieved...but I have also deluded myself into thinking it's just one of those busy times. At any moment the phone will ring and plans will be made for a weekend of sailing and eating and general loveliness. All the unconsciously stored up issues will be placed out on the table and dealt with and by the time we leave, our lives will be immeasurably better.

If only this were true.

Instead I find myself lost. The unconscious issues become all too conscious- like the old house not selling and us trying to pay two mortgages without a book contract or a good-paying, reliable source of income; like my not-so-secret feeling that I am a failure in my life because I don't know how I'm going to save us from bankruptcy. I know I could talk to him and without him telling me what to do, the answer would come clear and the burden would lift off my shoulders and leave my soul feather light.

It has been a month and I need him.

I watched 60 Minutes tonight and saw an episode about the medical teams trying to save lives in Iraq. One nurse, Mary, hit a nerve when she talked about fighting to save those boys, about remembering the names of the lost ones and how she still calls on them for strength when facing a particularly difficult case. She talked about fighting to beat the black spiral of death and how she feels like a failure when she loses.

I listened, started crying and had to leave the room for the bedroom where I watched the rest of the segment and sobbed. I know it triggered every weak spot in my all too vulnerable soul. I feel like Mary does when one of my old guys dies. I feel like a failure for not being able to save Dad and I still talk to my old guys and a few times, even Dad.

But he doesn't talk back, at least not yet, and it has been a month since he left. The logical rational part of me says, this is the way it is, kiddo. Welcome to the rest of your life. But the rational, sensible part of me says, he's just taking the tour. He'll be back. But my heart knows differently. My heart knows denial when it sees it.

So no, for me a month is not a long time to be missing someone- not when the rest of your life stretches out before you and the future without him is unfathomable on such a foggy, starless night.

I miss him bad, I do.

I must call my sister, Flea, and find out what she's feeling...I can tell with us, no news is never good news...