Since you've gone to heaven....

I spent the last weekend oblivious, and it was glorious. No phone, no internet, in the wild blue yonder. I didn't have to watch Father's Day commercials or read Father's Day advertisements or even look at other people's (super sweet, I know- I know!) Father's Day facebook posts with their daddy and/or baby's daddy. I read beautiful books, watched a couple of films about yearning, and moved softly through gorgeous nature.

Then Sunday morning came and whacked me right in the face. We were eating breakfast on the couch when the last song of Brandy Clark's album Big Day in a Small Town came on and it. just. got me. Here it is:
Brandy Clark, Since you've gone to heaven

Clearly this song doesn't apply to my situation exactly (Dilly never even went to college!) but I think she so perfectly captures the emotion of grief, of missing one's daddy and longing to talk to him, worrying about one's family and measuring up to expectations. I got the weeps big time.

You know someone is not only a very good friend, but a truly good human being, when both his arms are tight around you, and you're crying into his elbow, and he  holds you as long as you need without pulling away, and also your mouth is full of bacon because it hurts to swallow.

Then we talked about memory and loss, and people who are gone and where they go, and love. Then I started making lists.

Things that seem (mostly) to get better: playing the countdown + anniversary games (first time since, one month since, x years since), revisiting the old places, only remembering how he looked when he was sick, hearing the old songs, the hallmark holidays, telling someone new in my life that he's dead, looking at old letters, and telling funny stories without choking up.

Things that haven't (so far) gotten better: wanting to share the new songs, people, places; losing the sound of his voice and how he sat, the things that I will never know or ask, the guilt about letting his work molder in a file cabinet, the corroborations and corrections (Yeah, it did happen like that or no, that's not what was said), going to the movies in December, the pangs that are all the more vicious for their unexpected suddenness and sometimes inexplicable arrivals.

Things I hope will never go: the dream visits, hearing his name spoken aloud by people other than me, the sense-memory of matching my pudgy little stride to his long legs.

A day removed and the commercials are gone, along with the resentment. I'm grateful to feel like writing. The memories are back to being more sweet than not. And I can swallow again. Thanks for being my pops, Greg! xoxox