Yesterday I was grumpy. I felt off, irritable and just plain uncomfortable in my own skin.
Everything was too loud. I craved silence but couldn't find it on the exterior or interior.
Nothing was of interest in the means of food, conversation or thoughts. It was like I was looking for something I could not explain. A craving. Hunger for an unknown ingredient.
Nothing felt very satisfying.
Do you have these days?
Part way through the afternoon, I realized what it was. It was you. I miss your old Marine shirts and hearing your laughter from across the room. The smell of Sunday morning bacon and eggs on the deck, even though I never ate the runny yolks. Listening to your recycled old jokes and laughing anyway. Buying little brain teaser puzzles whenever I would fine one, knowing you'd love the challenge as we sat around the living room on the matching squishy sofas.
I miss your presence even if it was heavy or scared. I miss the rounded out feeling of the foundation for my life: my Fox Family of five. I miss knowing you are there, working on your computer or out on the tractor, a whiff of cigar smoke on the air. The hunt for the woodchucks that caused mischief in your garden. I wish I would have spent more time with you out there. You knew what you were doing and I have so many questions. Questions far bigger than the strawberries or grapes.
On my drive to town yesterday, the tears came out. I intentionally listened to the song we danced to on my wedding day: the Theme From a Summer Place. It was your favorite. I remember your fancy white dinner jacket and the way you looked at me as we danced.
I felt so loved. I remember knowing that this was one of those moments you never forget.
I just didn't know you would be gone shortly afterwards.
It went too fast.
We still talk in my dreams. Last week, you held onto my shoulders and smiled at me. We agreed to let go of being afraid. The old legacy of fear and anxiety and worry dissolved like a tired lightening bolt, ready to be released. The energy sizzled and I cried. If I don't worry about everything, am I doing enough? Am I holding up my end of the deal? Are the two of us still connected if we are free?
Yes, yes, yes. Even more so. Let go of the antiquated story and see how incredibly beautiful the design of the new path can be. We can build it together, even if we are in different forms.
Last night my Mom had us over for dinner. It felt like a Sunday night meal even if it was Monday. When I opened the door, I was flooded with feelings. It smelled like home.
Pot roast, carrots, onions, and mashed potatoes and gravy. Delicate guitar music played from the living room. The lighting was gentle and her smile was genuine. She had prepared a feast in honor of you and it was spectacular. After all, yesterday was the 27th of September and marked the 10th anniversary of your departure.
The five of us sat around the small round table and Mom opened the celebration with loving words about you. We all nodded and smiled at one another. While my children don't remember you in person, your legacy lives on in our stories and memories. We've shared with them the bigger picture without solely focusing on the highlight reel. We've talked about the hard aspects and the beautiful ones. We all love you.
I dished my plate up with a mound of warm vegetables, avoiding the pot roast as I haven't ever really enjoyed eating meat. But as everyone oohed and ahhed over the flavor and perfection of the pot roast, I found myself eyeing the last two bites on my son's plate. They were sitting there calling my name, all covered in gluten-free gravy. He said he was finished and my fork flew through the air. Those two bites of meat changed my day.
Savory, soft, delicious and prepared with love, in honor of you.
As I got up to take a photo of us enjoying dessert, the art on the wall behind the table caught my eye. It was a picture of a black bear. For those of you that knew my Dad, Papa Bear is what we called him. Bears for short.
With full bellies and full hearts, we said goodnight to my Mom and headed home. I skipped out the door, a new lightness in my step. That insatiable gnawing I had experienced all day had disappeared and I woke up this morning thinking about you and those last two bites of pot roast.
Medicine comes in many forms.
Yorumlar