A huge part of you died that day in June, so many years ago. I guess we were all just hoping the rest of you wouldn’t catch up quite so soon. I don’t know. The last time we spoke, I could hear the love in your voice. It was as if you knew you didn’t have much time left, and wanted our last words to be kind, and without regret. I haven’t seen you in months. I’ll never see you again.
I don’t know why I’m not crying. I spend my days and part of my nights going through your home (the home I grew up in, the home that was purchased as a direct result of my conception), looking for paperwork, looking for memories, looking for the things that MEAN something (in every sense). It’s hard. I see so much of the past in this house, and I want to cry because there’s no future left in it, save for what another family may make of it when it’s sold.
Your wife, the woman who bore your children and your bullshit and your love and your problems and your everything…the woman you loved was diagnosed with something deadly when your youngest son was 11 years old, and less than a year after your father’s heart gave out. Somehow, in the face of incredible odds, you and she strengthened one another and created five years when all they offered was six months. You had a hard time of it, but you both made it happen. When she wanted to give in, you held her up and lent her the strength of your convictions. You lit a fire under her, and you are the reason she lived. When you lost yourself to fear, she held you up and reminded you how much she loved you and the children you had made. She reminded you of her intention, come hell or high water, to stay on this Earth long enough, at least, for her baby to become a young man. You are the reason she succeeded.
A huge part of you died that day. I worried. Me, the baby, I worried about you. I wondered if you’d be able to carry on. I knew how much you loved her, and I knew you thought your fight was lost. But it wasn’t. I don’t know if you ever believed that. But alas, you finally did decide to pick yourself up and move forward. Twelve years, you’ve been married again, to another woman of the same name. Difficulty came with the territory, and became an integral part of our lives…and even though you had second thoughts about the longevity of your second marriage, there’s one thing that can’t be denied: you stuck it out, and you proved to everyone just how wonderful you could be.
But sickness strikes again, and this time there is no bargaining for time. For months, you’ve been doing everything in the world for her, making her life as rich as can be, making her days worth living, doing the research on her illness, getting her the proper care. We all expected to get that terrible phone call any day. No one suspected it would be about you.
But it was.
I spoke to my step-mother today, for perhaps the last time ever. She is living at my step-sister’s home, among family. I only hope they will have her through christmas. As of today, this is in doubt. Jesus, I never even really got along too well with the lady, and I’m crying for her because she has to go through this without the man she loves. Not only that, but in the midst of her pain, her heartache, her grieving for HERSELF…now she has to grieve for her husband.
I don’t know. I just know I’m nowhere near done here, and I’m nowhere near home, yet tomorrow I’m driving back to Baltimore to an apartment in which I’ve never before stepped foot. Home is currently a concept which is trapped in an apartment to which I no longer have a key. Both my parents are dead, and my step-mother might not last the week.
I miss you, Dad. I miss you, and I love you. Say hi to Mom for me. I’ll see you both in the next room.