Mom,
Tomorrow will be the third anniversary of your passing. It's hard to comprehend how three years can feel like so much time, and yet how it feels like it was just yesterday. That's three years since I last knew I could pick up the phone and call you to talk about anything (or, as the case often was, hear about anything) or nothing at all. 36 months since getting a voicemail with nothing but a song that reminded you of me. 156 weeks since the chance for a family gathering with just the original five of us (ignoring Shelby's assertion that I spoiled her party by taking her place as the baby of the family). 1,092 days since I could tell you I love you and have you respond that you love me more. 26,208 hours since I could tell you all the miraculous moments in my children's lives (yes, there are two of them now!).
I recall so clearly your lamenting in the years after my Bubbie, your mom, died that there's just nothing quite the same about carrying on in life without your mom there to share it with. I knew on some logical level that you were right; I just wish I was still limited to understanding the words and not the experience. There's something to be said for a mother's love - a love you can never replace or reproduce. It is, in the truest sense of the word, unconditional. It is a warm blanket surrounding you through which no cold can ever penetrate. It is a brilliant light over which no shadow can be cast. And though it never fades - even in your absence - there's something indescribable that is just different now that you're gone, something changed that I can't seem to entirely grasp. It makes me so grateful to have had such a blessed life in the glow of your love, yet so longing to bask in it in realtime and not just in the echoes of my memory.
Perhaps my greatest challenge is accepting the success of moving on with life. For all the times I miss you when I'm solitary, or when something random and beautiful reminds me of you, I miss you the most when I share a tender moment with Banner or Quinn. I often think of you when Quinn is laying his head on my shoulder in the twilight, as I sway with him cheek-to-cheek and he slowly drifts off to sweet and happy dreams. You spring into my mind when Banner and I have a deep conversation, or a hilarious laughing fit of love and affection for one another. I want so badly to discuss these daily miracles with you - to share them so that you can enjoy them with me - to celebrate my victories as a daddy. There is always a sense in those moments that you are there with us, that through such pure joy, your love shines through my boys and me simultaneously.
I know that Banner and Quinn would so adore you if you were still around, and that you would likewise be irrevocably entranced by them. I suspect they are exactly as you would predict them to be: smart, funny, thoughtful, adorable, appropriately rebellious (as I recall you describing me many years ago). I only fear that I will be unable to convey what an amazing mom, bubbie and friend you were. I still get a sinking feeling in my stomach, a twinge in my tear ducts, when I am forced to recall that I cannot share with you the daily miracles I experience as a parent. I think if you were here, you might enjoy hearing my excitement in reciting stories about the boys just as much as you would enjoy the stories themselves. And of course, I think you and the boys would most of all find such sweet happiness if you could make your own stories together - something I would trade so very much to make happen.
I often wonder what you would think of me as a parent. Banner was only four months old when you died; Amber and I were only four-month-parents. We were still figuring out which way was up (not that you ever really get your bearings), figuring out who we were as parents and as a parent couple. I wonder if you'd think I'm a good dad and a good father, if you'd think my failures were not as detrimental as they seem in my mind. I often want to confide in you all my fears and doubts of being a parent and learn your insights. Sometimes, I simply wonder how much or how little Banner and Quinn are like me when I was their age.
Most of all, though, I wish we could just talk. Even for a few minutes - just to catch up. Missing you doesn't only happen when something great or terrible occurs. It's not just when I feel so much love for my sons or for Amber, or when I've started my own business or had a baby. Missing you happens every day, all day. It happens in a song for which we shared the same affinity. It happens in a drive down a road on which we had a conversation years ago. It happens in the spectacular, unpredictable appearance of a memory of you while merely going about the mundaneness of an otherwise unremarkable day.
As you always knew, I struggle with having faith that there is more beyond this world. I teeter between the comfort of belief and the emptiness of what I perceive to be logical explanation. If you can read this though, I want you to know: These 26,208 hours, these 1,092 days, these 156 weeks, these 36 months, these three years: they have been amazing. I live an amazing, fulfilling life. Amber and I still have an incredibly enriching, interactive and loving marriage. Banner and Quinn bring me more joy than I ever knew existed in life, and I have a love for them that goes to a depth I never comprehended. Dad, Gayle, Shelby and me are doing fine; we're all happy, we're still together, we're still a family. I understand you now in a way I never did before. Now that I myself am a parent, I finally understand how much you loved me - and everything you did in my life to show it. Thank you for giving me so much love and affection, and know that in doing so, you planted those seeds in me which now sprout anew through my own family. A beautiful legacy indeed.
I love you,
Sammy
No comments:
Post a Comment