[ I initially typed the unedited version of this as a private message to a groupchat with a couple of friends Sunday night, and realized it’s the sort of thing weighing on me more frequently lately, AND I haven’t posted in this blog in awhile, so with some small edits, sharing here. For better or worse…]
I keep seeing Dad in the edge of my mind. Like I always did…before. I want to get the iced coffee he loved. I want to get the lemonade he drank. I want to call him to see if he wants hard boiled eggs or chips or ANYthing/whatever.
Or call to see if he had dinner yet–should I get an extra thing of salmon for him, too?
I want to go into the house and step out to the cave to let him know I’m home, after greeting mom in the living room. Or holler out to the cave “DAISEY!! It’s JUST me!!!” and then make my way out there.
Tell him some of the groceries I got, some thoughts for meals for the week.
He’d ask what else I bought. Did I get that ice cream he was wanting? What about olives? Tomatoes?
And maybe I’d have remembered, maybe not.
He’d inquire if I bought any “figures”–toys/etc.
Tell him yup, or nope, as would be the case.
Then he’d grab his phone–he might have something saved to show me he’s looking at on eBay. Tee shirt for himself, or a vest for the dog; maybe something he thought was best that I might like cuz it’s got Superman on it or some other comic-y thing.
Or he saw a shirt I might like, or shoes.
Or ask me if a package came yet? Was it for him, or something if mine?
Fill me in on what he was up to while I was out. Dave called, or he called Lynn, or talked to Janice or Becky or Sue. Fill me in on “news” from Zanesville–extended family.
I’d relish the conversation, the little things. But eventually I’d have to go put groceries away. Cold stuff.
TOO OFTEN he’d ask if I wanted to watch Blue Bloods, or 911. Always thought there’d be “later.” Figured we’d all three of us (him, me, mom) catch up over Christmas.
Now I have all the nights I could want to do whatever, but never gonna get to catch up on Blue Bloods with him. Or 911.
And I’m typing all this on the phone in the car cuz I don’t wanna go in.
It’s not that I AM pretending, but it’s like if I’m out here, it’s like any other time getting home from a grocery run and such. I’m out in the car, he’s inside unware of my being back yet. When I go in, Daisey’s gonna bark, but it’ll be WITHOUT Dad, and nothing I can do can change that or fix that.
The Life of Walt 