Hey Da:

It’s a few days away from Father’s Day. Last year at this time, I was so focused on how to care for Mom that the day seemed to slip by without notice. This year, I am really feeling the loss. Just as with Mother’s Day, the radio and television ads are relentless. Hammering the message to get dad “the best gift ever”.  I know, from all the years you were here, that extravagant gifts were unnecessary. I know that a card and your favorite candy was all you needed to feel loved. Remember the candy store in Wrentham that I used to stop at because, not only did they have your all-time favorite Maryjane bars and circus peanuts, they also had chocolate covered strawberries, cannolis, and all kinds of chocolate. I was literally like a kid in a candy store, except the candy was for you, not for me.

For some reason, words are hard to come by as I sit here this morning. Missing you. Missing our heart-to-heart talks. Missing the total and complete unconditional love you always showed me. No matter what, you always made me feel like you could and would love me, forgive me when I took a wrong turn and welcome me with a smile and a giant bear hug. I miss that so much. Look down on me from a wispy white mare’s tail, the brilliant full moon that you hung amongst the stars, and the deep-sky-blue-pink of a new morning and I’ll know you are there with me. Always.

Love you so much.

This is the first year of my life that I shall not be celebrating Mother’s Day with my Mother. It’s been much more difficult than I had expected. The commercials on the radio and the television are relentless. Walk in any store and the reminders and special aisles full of trinkets and cards are overwhelming. Catalogs and coupons fill my mailbox with an urgency to buy her the best and most beautiful gift imaginable. Jewelry. Clothing. Household appliances. Something. Anything to make this a “special” day for the woman who gave you life.

I never paid much attention to such advertising in previous years, as I knew what my Mama loved. Flowers. Colorful flowers of all kinds for planting in her various gardens and pots around the yard. I would buy purple pansies. Pink “wave” petunias. And various and sundry other annuals that brought a sea of color to her life. We would plant them and the joy on her face once they were in the ground was as magical as it was when I would bring her a handful of dandelions or violets when I was a wee lass. I loved bringing her flowers on Mother’s Day.

This year will be different

I can bring flowers to decorate the gravesite, and I will. I can imagine her face, lit up with love and affection, and I will. I can steep the day in the memories of past Mother’s Days, and I will. But there is nothing that will ease the ache in my heart, the emptiness of my first Mother’s Day without her. It’s the same ache that has filled my life in the nine months since she has been gone. Add to this month my Father’s birthday and their wedding anniversary and I know it’s going to be a tough one. But I also know I shall get through, as they would have wanted me to, taking it one day at a time.

Happy Mother’s Day Ma Mere. I miss you. I miss your physical presence. I miss your elegance and grace. I just miss you so much.

Love, Meg

Hi Dad:

I am taking a lunch break at work and watching the snow fall outside the four-panel picture window that overlooks the driveway. The flakes are big, like puffs of downy feathers, dancing through the air, sifting down to the ground. We are not supposed to get much, just a couple of inches. Everyone complains, but I know it’s just a little reminder from Mother Nature that she is in charge. Besides I never count out the possibility of snow until after your birthday, May 9th! I also remember riding in the car over to Norfolk to Richard’s birthday party all those years ago, and almost every year there would be a light snow. And that was April 16th. So, I am not annoyed by this little gift, just enjoying the beauty of it. Just as you taught me.
Easter Sunday was yesterday. It was hard without you and Mom. My memories of Easter are filled with hunting for chocolate eggs which you and Mom had hidden all around the house. They were hidden so well that some of them weren’t discovered until months later! Whoever found one would shout with glee and you would smile that knowing smile, shrug your shoulders and beam. Each of us had an Easter basket filled with peeps, M & M’s and jelly beans. Yum! I loved getting a new dress and patent leather shoes and a hat. I always felt so special. Dressed in our Easter best, we would go to Church. Mom would sing in the choir. Our little clan took up one whole row, and when we started getting antsy, you would poke the one next to you in the ribs and they would pass it along to the next and the next and the next, trying not to giggle cause we knew Mom could see us from the choir loft. I have to admit that Easter dinner was not my favorite. I never was a fan of ham. I wanted Mom’s roast beef and gravy. I think you knew that, though.
Fast forward to Tuesday morning, April 3, 2018. This morning the sky at dawn was a mixture of pastels along the horizon. There was a frosty film coating the grass and the trees. Supposed to be a cool one today. The clouds have started to cover the blue sky with a steely gray that promises a cold rain. Although it is April, the weather forecast is for cold temps. Only in the forties during the day and twenties to maybe thirty at night. Still, when the sun is out, there is a hint of warmth washing over my face when I look up. Promises of warmer weather coming.
I look forward to getting the stream cleared out and running. It’s full of leaves. I didn’t get it running last year, it was just too daunting a task after losing you and knowing Mom would be gone soon. But I can’t wait to play in the dirt and plant some flowers. I am planning a little memory garden for you and Mom in my front yard. I am going to dig up the grass and plant flowers to surround the bird bath that is there. There are also some bird feeders. I shall think of you every time I look at it. I have some gladioli to plant, and some pansies, and I am sure I’ll grab some petunias to add to it. It will be beautiful.
I miss you more than I can say, my dearest Da.
All my love,
Your favorite #2 daughter – Meg

Hi Dad:
It is so strange to be talking to you like this. Hoping and praying that you can hear me and that you are with me. It’s been almost a year since you’ve been gone and I still cannot wrap my mind around that fact. Every part of my life is filled with bittersweet memories of all the things you taught me, all the things you gave me throughout the years. It’s so painful to go for the phone to call you and share my world with you and know you will not pick up.
I wanted to tell you, back in February, that my crocus buds were ready to bloom. I wanted to ask you if they would survive the rest of the winter, knowing you would tell me that they would. A few days later, it snowed and they were covered up. But when the snow had melted some, there they were, open and reaching for the sun, just as you would have said.
I wanted to tell you that all my hyacinths had breached the soil, like the nose of a whale bursting through the surface of the ocean. And now, I would tell you that some of them have actually opened up and are filling the air with the sweet fragrance of spring.
The night before the first March blizzard, I pulled up into my driveway, stepped out of my car and heard the song of the first spring peepers. I grabbed my cell phone, ready to tell you, but instead I looked up at the stars that filled the clear night sky and said, “Hey Dad…the peepers are here!!” But you probably already knew that, didn’t you? This morning, Kyle left me a little yellow sticky note that said, “Peepers are out this morning!” And so it goes. Tradition continued. But it did bring tears to my eyes.
This morning, Good Friday, as I look out my window, all the snow is gone. The goldfinches at the feeder are turning yellow again. The song sparrows are singing their little hearts out and the red-winged blackbirds are back. There are buds on my magnolia tree. And I can hear you saying in a sing-song voice, “Spring has sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is.” Is it so bad that I am really pissed that I cannot see your laughing eyes as you recite this little ditty, as you had for years? If so, then I am sorry, but I am really mad. Not at you, but at life. I wanted to tell you that I planted some pansies from seed this year. It was miraculous to see the little green shoots poking through just a week later. And when I was transplanting them into bigger pots, they kept falling apart and I wanted to call you to see if you could give me some advice on how to stop them from crumbling in my hand because I ended up, pretty much planting each individual shoot, one by one, into the larger pots and it was not an easy task. That day I was really pissed.
Well, maybe I am a little mad at you for not telling us how sick you really were. Giving us a head’s up. A little time to prepare. Not that anything could have prepared us. I always believed you would live forever, or at least to 100. But I know it was to save us from worrying about you. You were sheltering us from pain, as you always, always did. I miss you Dad. Every second of every day. Stay with me, please?
All my love, your favorite #2 daughter.
Meg

“ … it’s been a long cold lonely winter…” and it’s only January 8th. I sit here sick, sad, grieving, waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel.
The holidays were not so “merry and bright”. The first holiday season without my parents has left such an empty, hollow pit in my heart and chest. I tried to be happy. I tried to be grateful. I tried to be accepting. But to no avail.
For Thanksgiving, we traveled down to Charlotte to be with Mikaela and her roommate Liv. It was the perfect diversion. Kyle and Shannon drove down and met us there. We cooked together. Ate together. Played cards. Watched football. The day seemed to fly by with minimal sadness. Yes, I missed my parents and my siblings, but for the past few years, Thanksgiving was not the big family gathering it used to be. So I was OK. I did cry some, but that was to be expected.
Then came the pre-Christmas rush. Music, decorating, traditions. I had all good intentions to make this Christmas the same as usual. Went up into the attic and took down the decorations. Put on the Christmas music. Made plans to put up the tree at my parents’ house. Instead, I got sick. Couldn’t make it to put up the tree. Turned off the Christmas music. Didn’t get anything but the bare minimum of decorations up. I fell into a funk, made worse by being so sick I couldn’t sing out my sorrow, sit up long enough to play the piano, or get out of my own way.
I felt a little better on Christmas Day. As I drove up to Franklin I was anxious and so sad. For the first time in 28 years, I was going to have Christmas dinner with my family of origin. Well, most of them. It may well be the last Christmas dinner we celebrate in this home that has been in our hearts and minds for our entire lives. Nothing could keep me away.
We had decided to make dinner together. The traditional roast beef dinner with all the fixings, I even made the gravy. Not quite Mom’s but passable. Most of the 8 kids were there. For the most part, though, I felt numb. I watched my brothers and sisters, as if in a well-rehearsed play, set the table, cook the vegetables, slice the roast…all of us trying to make this Christmas as close to normal as possible. But the empty seat at the head of the table, and the absence of my mother’s lilting voice calling us to dinner took its toll. Yes, we ate. Some of us exchanged gifts. But when dinner was done, we all kind of sat there, wondering what to do next.
So, we cleaned up, brought out the cookies, some wine, sat around the table and moved through it. We talked and laughed and caught up with each other’s lives, trying to keep it normal. At one point, we all toasted to Mom and Dad, each of us with a shot of Jameson. We toasted to the connection we all felt lucky to still have with each other. We toasted to the love of our parents so evident in our gathering.
When it came time to leave, as I was pulling out of the driveway, Mikaela broke down. “This is where I used to turn around and wave to Grandma until we turned the corner…and she’s not there anymore…” It was a moment that cut into my bones. She’s not there anymore. Neither is Grandpa.

Since Christmas, I have had a couple of major meltdowns. My heart and soul so flooded with grief that I could not speak. My grief has taken up residence in my chest, first pneumonia. Now bronchitis. I haven’t been this sick for this long ever.

I know I’ll get through this loss. I know it will take time. I know my world will never be the same. And I know they are watching over us always. I try to take comfort in that knowing. But most of the time I just want to hear my mother’s voice on the other end of the phone. Feel my father’s arms surround me in a huge hug, as he says, “How’s my Meg today?”

Saturday dawned, cool and bright. The leaves left on the trees were still brilliant yellows and golds and russets, adding a warm backdrop to the early November day. Some of us met at HQ and walked to the cemetery, a short, familiar walk about a quarter of a mile from the house. It was a gorgeous afternoon for a walk. We felt anxious, but took comfort in each other, as we tried to hold back the reality of what was to be the final leg of life’s journey for our parents.

The rest were already at the gravesite, quietly standing around, waiting. When I saw the flag, neatly folded atop the Kelly green marble urn with their names engraved on it, my breath caught in my throat and I felt my heart drop. I felt a physical pain as the scab of my grief was ripped off the wound I’d been trying to ignore for the past seven months.

A bronze plaque, set in the ground next to the family headstone, told the tale of my father’s service in World War II. I looked again at the urn, taking in the beauty of the marble, the perfectly engraved names with date of birth and date of death, and I felt the earth beneath my feet seem to give way. The tears streamed down my face as the reality of their deaths hit me, a physical blow to my stomach. All of the pain from the day my Da passed, through my mother’s failing health to her passing, kept at bay as the months went by, came crashing down around me. I looked around at my siblings, my husband, my son and his girlfriend , my in-laws and some of my nieces and nephews,  and saw the same raw emotion wrack their souls.

Our parents are gone. This is their final resting place. A life together, more than 70 years in the making, is over. A life that knew its share of happiness and grief, joy and tough times, yet still shared a deep and abiding love with whomever they met, is over.  We were so blessed. So blessed. They were not perfect. Nobody is. But the gift of their love to me and my brothers and sisters is as close to perfect as it can be. It is what will help us to eventually heal, and keep us tied together as we each grieve for the loss.

The priest gave his homily. A contingent from the Navy approached the gravesite, took the flag and unfurled it, catching the spirit of my Da in the honor of his service. They folded it back again, with reverence and respect. One of the sailors approached my oldest brother and placed the flag in his arms, thanking him and us for the service and sacrifices my father made for the sake of the country he so loved. Across the cemetery, another sailor let the crystal clear notes of her horn sing Taps, filling the fall air with a sound that would have made my mother cry. I have never heard Taps played with such emotion.

And so the service ended. I looked around again, and saw the eight of us; not as grown-ups. Not as parents with our own families. Not aging as we all have. I saw eight vulnerable, sad, orphaned little kids. Just looking for our parents. Wishing and wondering when they were coming home.

Ma Mere used to say, “Don’t say good-by. Say  so long.”

So I say, So long my Da. So long Ma Mere. Until we meet again.

This past Sunday we had a family dinner at HQ (a.k.a. Mom and Dad’s house) with some of my brothers and sisters. I hadn’t been there in over two weeks, not since my mother’s funeral. It felt strange to drive into the driveway, knowing that neither of my parents would be there. Still I had a hope, a fantasy that I would walk through the back door and Mom would be at the sink, watching the birds, and Dad would walk out of the den with his arms open wide, that big smile on his face, eyes twinkling as he said, “How’s my Meg? Come, give your old father a hug.”

It didn’t happen that way, of course. As I walked up the back steps, I looked in the window of the den out of habit, expecting to see Dad sitting in his chair, reading the paper. He wasn’t there. I opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen, looked around for Mom. She wasn’t there. I glanced from one corner of the kitchen to another. Nothing was out of place. The tea kettle was on the stove ready to sing. The woven place mats were on the table as always. But it was my sister who walked out of the den with her arms open wide, a sad smile on her face as she asked, “How are you doing? Do you want a cup of tea?” and turned the kettle on. And no one was at the sink watching the birds.

I stood there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of the house. A million visions of my childhood and adulthood racing through my mind. I pictured winter mornings at the table, wolfing down a big bowl of oatmeal. Thanksgiving dinner with the table overflowing with food and laughter and love. A big stainless steel pot of grape juice on the stove soon to be turned into the sweetest grape jelly ever. Every stage of making Christmas cookies covered the countertops in my mind and the aroma of their baking filled my heart. Then came the image of my Dad on the day he died, sad and frail as he waited for the ambulance to arrive to take him to the hospital. Maybe he knew he was going to die that day, but none of the rest of us had an inkling that he was so sick. And, finally, the raw memories of sitting at the table, with my Mom slowly dying in the bedroom off the kitchen, brothers and sisters trying to come to grips with the reality that we would soon be losing her as well.

The house is there. The memories are there. But the vibrant life force of Ralph and Lois seems to be gone. There is an emptiness that I could have never imagined even as I pull up to the house. And the grief and loss is overwhelming and all encompassing. I told my Mom I wouldn’t cry forever. I promised her I would be strong. And I am trying. But I think my tears are necessary for me and for her. My Dad’s point of view was that from the moment we are born we start to die. It’s a natural progression, the circle of life. He never said I shouldn’t cry, but when we talked about his dying, he made my promise I would be strong. So I am trying.

From where I stand, crying is being strong. Letting my love for them and the loss in my heart fill my eyes and roll down my cheeks is the strength I learned from them. They each suffered incredible losses in their lives, yet carried on, lived full lives, loved their children, set an example of what love is, gave their all to each other and to us. How long will I cry? Probably until the day I die. But for me, that is how I am strong. That is how I honor them. Until the day I die.

A Song for Mom

The very first song I ever wrote was a song honoring my mother. Here are the lyrics:

My mother is dying. When my dad passed away a few months ago, we all thought she would die of broken heart syndrome. Turns out, her maternal instinct is way more stronger than her broken heart.

Growing up, she always said, “Your father comes first. After all, when you kids are grown and off on your own, I shall still have your father. He will always be first.” We knew how much they loved each other. They showed us every day, in the little things. The way they said good-bye to each other as Dad went off to work. The way they greeted each other when Dad came home. The way they would look at each other and the little signs of affection they shared.

But, as my mother has slipped into the last leg of her journey these past two weeks, we have seen her love for us roar quietly as she has resisted the call of the other side. When she was still able to communicate with us, she said, “I know I am dying and I need to let go.” She spoke to each of us expressing her love and making us promise to be strong when the time comes. But her instinct to shield us from the hurt and pain of losing her has been evident as she has resisted the pain medication that would ease her suffering, knowing it would make it impossible for her to communicate with us. Even as the dying process has continued, she has refused to let it take over, and is still holding on. We know it’s because of her love for us. Without having anything to eat or drink for over a week, she is still holding on. Through feverish days and nights, she is still holding on. She wants to spare us this final hurt.

But it’s OK, Mama. We are strong. We are your children. You have taught us well. And yes, it will hurt and the pain will be intolerable at times, but we will be OK. We have each other. We shall turn to each other and find comfort and solace in the love you have shown us. In the strength you have passed on to us, even in these last few days. We love you Mama. Godspeed. Let the angels bring you the joy of taking you to your place in heaven. With Dad. Together. And we’ll see you on the other side.

It’s the first day of Summer 2017. There was no spring to speak of.  Rainy, damp, foggy, cool. Days and days and days without the sun shining. Blankets and sweatshirts in the house because you just cannot turn the heat back on when it’s late May. Who does that? Well, I admit, I did. I turned the heat back on for a few days because it was just too damn cold for May. What can I say?

My garden beds are a disaster. Except for the phlox and lilies and butterfly bushes that come up every year, there is hardly any color. I have not planted one annual. There are still leaves needing to be raked out. Trellises needing to be pulled back up. But, somehow, I just cannot find the wherewithal to go out and take care of these things. I look at them as I walk from my car to the front door, and think, “Yeah, I should rake those leaves out. I should get a few petunias. Those weeds need to be pulled.” But I have lost my motivation.

I haven’t walked in months. Both me and Tucker need to get back into the woods. My woods. The woods where I used to feel safe, but now not so much. The early morning air that used to wake me up feels uninspiring.  Watching a hummingbird at the feeder moves me, but not to the joy I once felt. I haven’t even been to the canal once this year. I know I need to do these things, but I have lost my motivation.

I feel certain that this all has to do with the grieving process, but it’s so foreign to me. These feeling of deep sadness and pain seem insurmountable at times. I am a happy person. I am a grateful person. I find joy in everyday things. But these days, I seem to have lost that spark. I pray I find it again.