-
Loss Creates Space
My brother and I stand at the dresser I used as a child. It is covered with sewing notions. Things our mom used to patch levis, stitch quilts, and add badges to scout shirts. Things that were useful when she was around. My brother said: “It’s just a Chex tin, but I remember it from 40 years ago.” I look at the other tin, full of spools of thread and pins and buttons. It takes me to my mom. Actually everything in the house holds a memory of my mom, my dad or my childhood. Our dad’s death evokes our mom, who has been gone almost 13 years. I pick…
-
Stress and Kindness
I am on a flight home from Utah. I wear a mask because I don’t want to sneeze on my neighbor. Apparently I’m allergic to dust. Last weekend, while clearing my dad’s home, I developed sinus issues. During the descent of both flights, I feel like my eardrums are going to burst. It turns out to be the perfect segue into the next few days. The following evening, I sit on the couch beside my husband listening to the president of the United States address the nation with an update on the Coronavirus. The day after, between an ENT appointment, check-ins with my kids and a trip to the grocery…
-
Letting Go and Overgrown Rose Bushes
I pick up my dad’s Navy uniform. I feel the scratchy wool and see the contrast of white stars on dark blue. It’s heavier than it looks and I wonder how he managed in the Hawaiian humidity. I study a picture of him in uniform, standing on the shore in front of a Navy ship. He is looking at the camera. Full of the future. I’ve had lots of time to think about my dad and mom as my sister and I begin the work of condensing the contents of their lives into a single room. But that’s not entirely accurate because the contents will actually be spread across the…
-
From Branch to Trunk
I wrap my wet hair in a towel after my morning workout. I hear the door close and Scott’s quick steps. I ask why he is back an hour and a half after leaving for work. I notice watermarks on his tie. Later I know they were caused by teardrops. Scott: “Here she is, Dad.” He hands me the phone and stands close, his arm around me. I hear my dad speak. Me: “What?”He tries again. I hear a solitary wail in the distance. The sound of grief. I sink onto the bench at the foot of the bed, and only then do I discern the wail rose from a place within me. …
