Holding On For Dear Life

-->13 days ago, The Boy’s grandpa, Papa Ron, died. It was a short battle with a vicious disease, and a sudden end in the course of it all. He left an amazing wife, 11 children—biological, surrrogate, in-law, and 18 grandchildren of the same variety. He left us devastated. To me he was the head of a family that saved my life and gave me a home where I was safe when no one else could, an uncle, a quiet and gentle man who literally never locked his front door. To this day I remember my first Thanksgiving with them—Tiny threw up down my back and Ron came over to play with her and sit with me. He cradled her compact body in one arm and distracted her by dancing his fingers above her eyes; a trick I still use with Paws today. His booming smile, the warmth that emanated from him, the security that I felt in his presence, will be missed every day. The holidays are encroaching and it is impossible to imagine Christmas morning brunch without him. Whatever will we do without Ron?

All this week I have been longing for home; not the home my own parents created but a community where I found a place without restriction, where I could be whatever kind of person I was at that moment. All this week I have been grieving alone, isolated from the people who were mourning his loss, my sadness a fraction of their own. I am very close to Ron and Kathy’s oldest son, Josh, and his wife Kristin. When I followed them home, a little lost and a little lonely, they made me part of their family. And I am lucky. Josh and Kristin have 3 children who I love dearly: Sprout, The Boy, and Tiny. Now they are 10, 8, and 6—when I met them they were 2 1/2, about 10 months, and not even a glimmer in her parents’ eye. Coming home to them this weekend was a revelation, an affirmation that I do indeed belong there and that no matter how far I roam, they will always be my family.

After the graveside service, and then the tailgate party that Ron had requested, Kristin and Josh asked me to take the kids home so that they could stay and help clean Kathy’s house. After hugging Kathy—ah, my Amy, I love you—she whispered to me, and all I could say was I love you back but what I meant to say was that and then thank you for everything, Kristin and I loaded the kids into the car. She mouthed are you ok to me and we gave each other one more hug. Thank you so much she said and it was right that I was there to do that, there is no where else I’d have been. After a half hour drive, they were all tired and far away. Grief is unbearable at best but seeing it settle in children who you would do anything for, lie down in traffic for, is crushing. All their lives I have existed to give hugs, bump noses, carry on my back, and sing songs with; all their lives I have lived for their smiles back at me. We got into pjs and curled up on the couch to watch Stargate: Sprout, lithe and ascending into teenagerhood all too soon, put her head on my shoulder and her feet under my own. Tiny, graceful and wise, snuggled up with her head on my stomach; the Boy kissed the tip of my nose with a smile and put his hand lightly in mine. After the movie we moved towards bed—each of them sending a text to their mom and settling in. Sprout, confident and brave, went calmly; Tiny cried over little things until we band-aided a superficial scrape and gave each other bear hugs. The Boy, stuck on pause in the hallway, said to me I miss Papa. Tears lit in his eyes and suddenly I was on my knees, his skinny arms around me and head on my shoulder. We stayed there holding on to each other; again he whispered I miss Papa and I tell him that I’m sorry, that I do too. We talk about what he missed, and over and over I remind him that his Papa loved him more than anything. He says I know and several times almost lets go only to renew his hold on me. Right then and there I am stunned, grateful for the thousands upon thousands of hours I have spent with him so that in this moment I can be the person he needs, so that I can hold him tight and whisper I love you, baby. The Boy rolls me astounded, the word, breathless: he is a fearless kicker for his football team and at 8 is wise enough to know that playing football doesn’t mean you can’t do ballet too; he is lean and long and compassionate, open with how he feels and more than willing to hug me in public. When I am with him, with them, that is home. Last night I wanted to march into the host of heaven and pull Ron back to earth if only to see The Boy’s smile return. And of course there is nothing more helpless than that, isn’t there?

Lights out time. Kisses for Sprout, kisses for Tiny, the realization that I spent more time today holding on to a kiddo than not. Realizing that here my arms are never empty. I stand on the lower part of The Boy's loft bed and entwine my hands with his own. He lays his head on the railing and tells me again I miss Papa. His eyes shine tearful once again and I kiss his forehead, willing his sadness into my own heart and out of his. 3 minutes later the girls are asleep; 10 minutes after that he is out too, mercifully for both of us. In his sleep one arm settles over the side of the bed, reaching out towards the door for a beloved grandpa who will never again come through it; in my sleep I too will cry.