That's what I get for cleaning.
You see, it was the very act of cleaning that triggered the whole thing. My mom had brought me out a set of glasses when she visited during the first two weeks of June and those glasses have sat in the same spot where I set them when we brought in her stuff. Even the white bag they were in was dusty.
Cause that's how I roll.
Apparently something unnatural in the universe sparked a cleaning gene hidden deep within me around noon on Monday. Yes, noon on Monday. I remember it vividly because the husband needed work shirts and other necessities and I gave him my word I would take care of it Monday (promised on Saturday). I didn't want him to come home after work to find me still in my pajamas with nothing accomplished, so around noon on Monday I decided to start laundry.
Oh, the joys of summer break.
It was while I was sorting laundry in the kitchen that I decided maybe I would actually clean the kitchen and as I was putting away glasses from the dishwasher I thought about that bag my mom left me. No time like the present, I thought, and I lifted the bag to the counter to begin unwrapping my mom's serious wrapping job of those glasses.
I knew the glasses were plastic so with the unusual weight of the first one I picked up, I wondered what surprise she had included that I had procrastinated in finding. Even before I uncovered it, though, the realization hit me that it was the very mug that I had asked to keep when I had visited her back in April.
And that's when the wave hit.
Grief is like an ocean. In the beginning, right when my dad's life was ending, the waves were huge, like standing at the edge of the Atlantic on a windy day when the clouds are low and dark and rumbling. There seemed to be no break in the white-capped, rolling waves as they made their way toward land and toward my heart. Time went by and just like the ocean itself, the waves became calmer- always present, but not quite so threatening.
Maybe it was because that blasted Facebook has been reminding me of memories from two years ago:
Dad's first chemo treatment tomorrow. Please pray for a miracle.
Dad's very tired and so is Mom. Thank you for praying for a miracle.
I refuse to believe a report from man. I am expecting a miracle.
You get the idea.
So on Monday just shortly after noon when I was holding a mug in my hand that the youngest had presented to my dad as a gift in more hopeful times, an unexpected wave came crashing in while I wasn't looking and just about knocked me off my feet. I fought through the tears as I put away the glasses and cursed the very thought that had me cleaning in the first place. I thought of my mom and my admiration for her grew even more. The size of the waves she has withstood... and is still standing.
I still don't know what to make of this world without my dad in it. I don't know that it will ever feel the same. Even so, I hear him in the words of my kids and in their laughter and questionable jokes. Some days it's almost the same as having him nearby. Almost, but not quite. I suppose that is the consequence of having someone who meant so much no longer breathing the same air.
And, as we have learned, the consequence of my deciding to clean on a Monday at noon.
No wonder I'm such a procrastinator.
2 comments:
Our stories are different, but they are the same. My heart gets yours, my friend. Thanks for posting this.
your description of grief is so stirring. "Grief is like an ocean. In the beginning, the waves were huge, like standing at the edge of the Atlantic on a windy day when the clouds are low and dark and rumbling. There seemed to be no break in the white-capped, rolling waves as they made their way toward land and toward my heart. Time went by and just like the ocean itself, the waves became calmer- always present, but not quite so threatening." SO beautiful. So true.
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