Was that you? I felt your voice in my heart tonight. I love it when you call me, but I'm never sure, never really sure.
Am I dreaming? Has our world fallen apart? It seems to have done so without you. I want to tell you how hard it is, how sometimes I want to quit. I want to tell you how much I understand you now. The funny thing though, the dark but funny thing, is that when I put my shoes on, I feel you and I hear you asking for my help and I know that quitting is not possible. And then I realize how much you did and how relieved you were by my help. We took care of our family, together.
I wipe a tear, hang my head. I recognize the moment as your own. At this point, you'd ask me for help. Now I'm asking you, father. I need help.
Father, I'm asking for your wisdom, I'm asking you to tell me. How do I help her and him and her? How do I help them and still work my job and my time and still absorb the love and answer the needs and carry on? How do I fill the shoes you left me to fill, answer what is asked of me? How do I keep your voice? How am I you?
No words.
I miss the shape of your name in my sentences. I miss your watery blue eyes. I miss your gentle hands. I miss your voice and your love and your heart. I miss your face and your presence and your wisdom. I miss your humor and your support and belief. I miss your love and I miss the days before I grieved you. I miss your life, father, I miss your life.
I am rounding a corner, softening sharp edges, breathing dull gashes, returning. To that day. It's you, I feel it.
It's not you. It's a haunting. The calendar, the memory, the loss. The void. I stand up and wait for you to tell me you love me.
You're there, aren't you? I hear you. I feel you.
Father?
Silence.
The earth spins. The seasonal talk of Superbowl Sunday begins. I turn my head, my stomach tightens. Again the reminder of the day, of your leaving. That day again, that square inch on my calendar. It's just a shape. But it's a day and a date. My head falls into my hands. It marks a life lost. Your life lost.
It's coming. Soon you'll have been gone for two years. Two years, father, two. The last words you said to me were I love you Cat. Two years.
I have no idea how I've made it these years without you.
She said it best... In a way that is my own, I begin again.
There's no choice. I walk, I run, I freeze. I worry, I cry, I laugh. I pray. I get out of bed each day and I try, I just try. I take care of her. And her. And him. For you, for me. I do it because I am you, because that is what you gave me, you taught me, you passed on to me. I haven't left you, father, I have not left you or your many lessons. I carry you on. I'm taking care of things for you, I am.
But oh how I miss you. How I do miss you.
I say it out loud.
I miss you.
Silence.
2 comments:
he knows, alison. of that, i'm sure. and he is proud.
Alison, you've had so much to deal with in such a short span of time, it's no wonder you're exhausted. Trust your instinct that your father is with you. You may not hear his advice in words, but you'll do what you think he'd do, and it will be good enough. I remember your dad as a hard-working man, and I also remember hearing him talk about fishing and boating--taking time for a little R&R. I'm sure he'd tell you that you can't spend every waking moment taking care of other people's needs.
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