Goodbye, Hello

I hate to think this is turning into a death blog, but well, people keep dying. This one was not unexpected and you can read about my father in law’s passing over on the family blog. What I did not say there out of respect I will say here, but do not think me cold to speak the truth. It is what it is. Margaret said to my husband before we left, “I wish we had been closer,” meaning she wishes they had engendered love from my children instead of demanding it. My children so wanted to have grandparents nearby, but her experiences with them were mostly full of frustration and unpleasantness. They did not give the requisite unconditional love, that thing that comes from the heart with no boundaries as naturally as dew on summer mornings. When they were unhappy with the children they reduced the amount of money in their birthday cards or skipped sending them altogether. Not that money is important to children, but knowing that it was to them and that they used it as a weapon was unconscionable.

I am blessed with the ability to sleep under any circumstances, as is my oldest son, but for the other three in my family sleep is a fickle friend, never there when need is the greatest. The laughter from the kitchen at four this morning disturbed me only briefly. I know the girl felt guilty that she did not go to Roanoke more often, and that she was not there when her grandfather died. I know sleep would have been days in coming and she would have paced the floor sad and exhausted. I know that is why her on again, off again boyfriend’s car is parked in my driveway this morning. I know that is why my husband clung to me like the orphan child he is when he came to bed at 5.

I need to decide things today and somehow navigate this emotional time without upsetting anyone further. The funeral director called me this morning and asked what he should do. Pop requested that his body be given to science, but the man tells me as diplomatically as he can that they may not want this particular body. He will not know until Tuesday because of the holiday. If they will not take it, we must pay for cremation. I do not want to think it but I immediately remember the smell of death and regret that Pop died on a holiday weekend. I do not want to always be such a practical logical person, but reality assaults me.

I’m letting the house sleep this morning while I write. I have to work up an obit for the Richmond paper. I have to get pictures ready for the memorial service. I have people to call and other duties that I’m sure will fall to me because crisis is what I do best. Ironically the memorial service will probably be scheduled on the day my grandson is due to make an appearance. I’m hoping for some reason that the baby will hold off until the 12th, my father’s birthday, and also the day after we arrive in Seattle to meet him. I know I will forever juxtapose his beginning with Pop’s ending, the shadow of death falling across life, reminding us that we are only flesh and blood. But then, my girl came to me this morning and told me her dream yesterday, the one of Pop and his beloved wife Eva, her namesake. They were in an embrace, dancing endlessly, young and happy, smiling. I want to believe, oh how I want to believe.