Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Late Night Note

I'm making my way through the last season of Parenthood.
Man...I love that show. I've laughed and I've cried throughout the whole series.
Love it enough that I bought the whole entire thing.

I watched a couple episodes last night, one of them being the episode where Zeek has open heart surgery.  Something about it triggered a memory about my dad when he was sick, one I hadn't thought about for a while.  
After midnight, I decided I was going to hit the hay.
I came upstairs to do a few things I always do before turning in.  
I walked through my house in the quiet and then went downstairs, pulled out the leather bound book by my bed, and wrote a few lines to my dad:

Was watching something tonight that took me back to the night you came home from Cape Cod and a friend brought you home and I was waiting at the house for you.  I came out to the car and you were waiting for me, leaning on the passenger door.  I put your arm around my shoulder and we slowly made our way up the back walk, the backyard lit from the little yellow light on the west side of the garage. It's crazy, Dad...it all happened so fast and I couldn't believe we were on that speeding train.  Made me remember how tender and difficult and unbelievable all of that was.  
I went outside tonight to turn out deck lights and twinkle lights in the yard on the garden shed.  When I came in and walked through the house, making sure doors and windows were locked, I looked around at the things in my entryway and front room -- the pictures on the walls, the china hutch, the things -- and so much of it -- almost all of it has sentimental value, ties me to my parents and grandparents.  You are all here, in my front room, in my heart, in my life.  I feel so aware that so much of me is you, that the love you all gave to me is my strength today.  I carry all of you with me.  I've got pictures of both sets of grandparents and the print Ellen did of the house, stuff you brought back from various travels, a brass pitcher of Grandma Vera's, a gift from Sarah, the china hutch, filled with Grandma's china and candles, the clock that was in the living room all growing up, the painting I chose from Dan Moss, years ago, the picture of my hands clasped with Mom and Grandma Vera's that symbolizes my motherhood to me.  It's all very humbling and beautiful to realize how many lives make up your life.  I remember that our family home was full of photographs of family long gone, but not gone.  I feel so aware of that now.  They're not gone.  They're still as much a part of you as they were when they were physically here.  I'm so grateful for that.  So very grateful.  
I love you, Dad. 

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