It is inevitable.
We cannot stay the same.
It has been a month since the funeral.
It is quiet now.
Winter has been colder this year. Somehow, on the day of the funeral, it was one of the few Spring-like days.
We'll always remember that last day as a beautiful day.
Life is trying to return to normal, I am trying, but it isn't the same. I have changed.
I could get all mushy and touchy-feeley, but the truth is...if I didn't change, I would be broken.
Somethings just aren't as important anymore, others have taken their place.
It was hard to refocus, I am getting there. The "entertainer" that enjoyed the show is resting. I am paying more attention to detail, trying to pick up so many pieces that need attention...so many pieces.
My brother and I have changed.
We stand alone now, as the "older generation", too young to counsel, to old to take chances.
I have a lot to do. It is early and the taskmaster I created in my moment of tears awaits. I need to take care of life that waits for no man.
It was a pretty day when we buried him, the sun was shining and the colors of the flag were vibrant as a hero was laid to rest.
I ramble, I guess the feelings are still pretty intense, in time...it will change also.
It is inevitable.
We change to survive.
Maybe I'll go to the grave and honor him today...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
There are no instructions
Dear Dad,
I was young, maybe 4 years old. I remember the small "cottage" (a nice way to say "tiny") place we lived. I remember hardwood floors (they weren't cool back then), I remember playing on the floor. Funny, the floors were always clean.
I remember you building car models, you loved to build models of antique cars.
You always told me, "read the instructions."
When I started building models, I learned the value of your words.
You know, I am one of the few guys that reads instructions...maybe I am older than my time, but I found something that works. I have wasted too much time and money trying to do it without instructions.
Now, as we disassemble your life, there are no instructions.
I pack up items, separate them by boxes with the names of your sons, and I have to stop sometimes...it really happened. You are not going to yell up in the attic and ask,"what are you doing up there?"
There is no book that tells me how to make the memories fit without hurting. Life does not have perforations, where I can "tear here" and fit the memories smoothly into a box in my heart.
Life is fragile, brittle, and when I try to bend and fold it, it breaks into a million tiny shards that cut like razors. Some are so small they become embedded in who I am, and they appear at unplanned moments and slice mercilessly.
There are no instructions. No manual to remove someone you love from your heart, maybe we aren't supposed to.
Whether by death, or some other unfortunate situation, I believe the separation from a loved one is a dreadful punishment.
It is a cold day today, barely above freezing and grey skies outside.
The inside feels like the outside today.
It will pass.
It has to.
In the mean time, I will take the pieces of you, embed them deeply into my life, so even as I disassemble your life, you are still here.
When the tears flow once again, I will rejoice that yours have stopped, and perhaps I will feel all there is to feel, and the healing will be sweet relief.
There are no instructions.
I was young, maybe 4 years old. I remember the small "cottage" (a nice way to say "tiny") place we lived. I remember hardwood floors (they weren't cool back then), I remember playing on the floor. Funny, the floors were always clean.
I remember you building car models, you loved to build models of antique cars.
You always told me, "read the instructions."
When I started building models, I learned the value of your words.
You know, I am one of the few guys that reads instructions...maybe I am older than my time, but I found something that works. I have wasted too much time and money trying to do it without instructions.
Now, as we disassemble your life, there are no instructions.
I pack up items, separate them by boxes with the names of your sons, and I have to stop sometimes...it really happened. You are not going to yell up in the attic and ask,"what are you doing up there?"
There is no book that tells me how to make the memories fit without hurting. Life does not have perforations, where I can "tear here" and fit the memories smoothly into a box in my heart.
Life is fragile, brittle, and when I try to bend and fold it, it breaks into a million tiny shards that cut like razors. Some are so small they become embedded in who I am, and they appear at unplanned moments and slice mercilessly.
There are no instructions. No manual to remove someone you love from your heart, maybe we aren't supposed to.
Whether by death, or some other unfortunate situation, I believe the separation from a loved one is a dreadful punishment.
It is a cold day today, barely above freezing and grey skies outside.
The inside feels like the outside today.
It will pass.
It has to.
In the mean time, I will take the pieces of you, embed them deeply into my life, so even as I disassemble your life, you are still here.
When the tears flow once again, I will rejoice that yours have stopped, and perhaps I will feel all there is to feel, and the healing will be sweet relief.
There are no instructions.
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