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.
