Grief Came Calling. Daddy smiled.
Friday night the grief for Daddy came calling. No amount of Ambien or Lexapro was going to turn it away. In bed, facing a Northern wall, I kept seeing his face.
I've felt pangs of guilt that I was struggling with, those weeks I knew I was struggling with grief but when My Jamie died it was harder for Daddy's grief to be felt. Grief is an odd thing, isn't it. I had wallowed in it for Daddy for weeks but felt like it was over shadowed with My Jamie.
Friday night I kept seeing his face. His arm and tattoo.
Why did I ask for a picture of his arm? In all those years I never took a picture of the tattoo. But his death made me want a picture.
Of his lifeless arm, so familiar to me.
The tattoo long ago blurred and is hard to make out.
I have a lot of childhood photos, the album of pictures scanned and saved to a drop box. Touch a screen and scroll. I gave in to the grief, walked to the living room in the dark and picked up the tablet.
My Daddy smiled.
Years of my Dad's slightly stern grumbly ways made me think he wasn't a smiler. He was happy, yes, but not much of a smiler I thought.
Until I saw the young man, the new father, smiling back at the camera in pictures with his boys. All too often the camera must have been held by Mom, there are few photos of all 4 of us. Someone trades off, I guess. She captured him as a young man, a new father, smiling.
I figured out once that he was 25 when I was born. When I was 25 he was 50, the age I am now. I don't feel 50. He seemed so mature, so knowledgeable. He was just my age. He smiled.
I've felt pangs of guilt that I was struggling with, those weeks I knew I was struggling with grief but when My Jamie died it was harder for Daddy's grief to be felt. Grief is an odd thing, isn't it. I had wallowed in it for Daddy for weeks but felt like it was over shadowed with My Jamie.
Friday night I kept seeing his face. His arm and tattoo.
Why did I ask for a picture of his arm? In all those years I never took a picture of the tattoo. But his death made me want a picture.
Of his lifeless arm, so familiar to me.
The tattoo long ago blurred and is hard to make out.
I have a lot of childhood photos, the album of pictures scanned and saved to a drop box. Touch a screen and scroll. I gave in to the grief, walked to the living room in the dark and picked up the tablet.
My Daddy smiled.
Years of my Dad's slightly stern grumbly ways made me think he wasn't a smiler. He was happy, yes, but not much of a smiler I thought.
Until I saw the young man, the new father, smiling back at the camera in pictures with his boys. All too often the camera must have been held by Mom, there are few photos of all 4 of us. Someone trades off, I guess. She captured him as a young man, a new father, smiling.
I figured out once that he was 25 when I was born. When I was 25 he was 50, the age I am now. I don't feel 50. He seemed so mature, so knowledgeable. He was just my age. He smiled.
Comments
Post a Comment