thanksgiving
A holiday meant to mark the things we’re grateful for, but what about the things you aren’t? I suppose one can be thankful for those things, too, since they do teach a lesson, but man, they can be hard.
The elephant in the room was him, of course, but we all moved around his shade [glanced at the places he would have sat, listened for the opinion he would have offered, waited for him to give the blessing before dinner] and got on with the day. Perhaps the conversation was quieter, the laughter more subdued, the attitudes a little more jaded, the smiles a bit more tremulous instead of wide and joyful. Despite all of the differences, it was nice to all share this grief that gives us the space to not feel obligated to ask how each of us are coping.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure how today would go. Chris searched high and low for some alcohol for us to have, and it was drank while playing Farkle and Cards Against Humanity. I had a few moments earlier in the day when I had the chance to be my head (for better or worse) as Chris drove us to Jacksonville. What a difference a year makes. This time last year, we were on our way to Jacksonville from Valdosta, where we spent time with my mom’s side of the family. (In fact, in one of the photos that was taken is of me with Kylee, who recently lost his wife to Covid.) I didn’t take enough time to connect with my dad. I can’t do anything about it now, but I didn’t call enough. Or text. Or visit. It’s useless to beat myself up over it because nothing can change the past. That’s the reality, frozen in amber.
It was a guy punch to realize that. Our relationship could have been better, we could have been closer. I never felt a lack, though. Maybe I could learned about his health history and more about the family dynamics. Instead, I busied myself with video games and lazy weekends at home. Spent more time with my mother-in-law, drinking, than I did with my dad, watching tv. Maybe he didn’t feel the lack, either. But maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself.
I texted his phone today. I deleted our two-line text from two weeks ago because it was literally nothing. And it turned my stomach to see his name in my chats. But I couldn’t resist the thought once I had it. So cliche to do it, I mean how many times have we seen a feel-good piece on social media like this? Too many to count. I typed it out and deleted it once. I thought about it for longer. On the way back to his place, I typed it out again.
hey, happy thanksgiving. I miss you.
Simple and concise as it was, the truth of that line was like a punch to the gut. I didn’t make the time and I regret that. I will always have to live with that.
But I’m thankful he was my dad. And I’m thankful
I learned the lessons he taught, indirectly or otherwise.
I miss him like I think it feels to miss a limb. I can do everything I could do before, but not as well. Thoughts of his presence gone from my life feels like poking a burn - sharp and insistent pain that spreads outward in a ripple and gradually fades away. The feeling of that pain is never truly forgotten, though we forget the intensity. There are times when it feels like I’ve forgotten more than I’ll ever know.
I am thankful for the family he helped me be a part of, gave me siblings and a practical role model.