The streets I drove around the medical complex in Houston for those last awful months stick in my mind. I’m knitting and watching tv, and images of the streets & businesses I drove by appear vividly in my head.
Dennis and Mary arrived yesterday for a weeklong visit; it’s going pretty well; Magnus is happy to see them. I’m torn, I struggle. I’m glad they came to visit us, they are spending time and money to be here. Mary is talking about flying out in January for Magnus’ birthday. I try to not let the memories of how horribly they coped when their son was dying, when he needed them, and they weren’t there.
In an email before their trip Mary asked if there was anything they could bring me from Texas. The first thought that popped in my head was “bring me Chris, bring me my husband”. He died in Texas, Texas was the last time he was with me. This urn on my bedside doesn’t hold him, it’s just the ashes of his body.
Magnus tells me he misses his daddy, asks where is he now, what would it be like if he was here, that he wishes he could come back alive.
Last Christmas, and Chris’ last, I bought us matching shirts from Target that are from the Christmas Story movie, Chris’ favorite. I put it on the other day and Magnus asked me about it, and I cried realizing that Magnus doesn’t get to share the movie with his father. Chris doesn’t get to watch the movie with his son this Christmas, when he’s old enough to see it.
The living bodies of men his age, or older, still confuse and transfix me. When I’m around fathers & their children at playgrounds I feel the urge to tell them, tell them what I don’t know. Tell them to cherish the simple beauty of being a father alive with his children? How completely creepy that would be. I try not to stare, I try not to cry.
ad astra per aspera 