Pleasant Hill

I don’t know if people should drink beer at a cemetery, but I have.  And I do.  And I will.

Last night I sat beside your grave with my head on my hands for a while, just thinking of you.  I imagined the sound of your laughter.  I envisioned your exaggerated expressions.  I thought of your mannerisms and body language.  But, mostly, I thought of the way your face looked when you smiled—so warm and big and bright.  I closed my eyes and remembered how you’d clap your hands together in front of your face when you got excited about something.  I sat there and thought of the sound of your voice when you’d greet me—it was easy to hear your voice in my mind in the quiet of the empty, sprawling field.

This sounds obvious, but it’s sad to think that I’ll never hear that voice again outside of the saved voicemails.  I’ll never see that bright smile again outside of the pictures.  I’ll never hear that laugh and see those waving arms again outside of the videos from vacation.  But I’m comforted that, for now, it’s all permanently in my mind’s eye and imprinted on my heart.  I carry the memory of you within me every day, everywhere I go.  I only visit the cemetery every once in a while, but I visit your memory all the time.

After a while, I got out my guitar and played a few songs.  I barely got through Luke Bryan’s Drink A Beer.  And I cobbled together a some-lyrics version of Zach Brown’s Colder Weather.  And I completely botched Cam’s Burning House.  But it felt good to sit there, next to your resting place--beer open, feeling the sun on my back and just singing.  And when I was done singing, I turned around.

The most beautiful sunset was heading toward the tree-line, and it was so peaceful.  I’m comforted by the hope of seeing you again someday and I enjoyed spending time in my mind, where your earthly body lays.  I’m grateful for all of the memories I have, but I wish you were still here to make more.

Mother's Day Again

The sting of your death lightens and fades as time goes on, it seems like I no longer wince as hard because it’s not right behind me anymore.  It’s farther away, less aggressive.

The more relevant pain is more of a dull ache. A longing.  A wishing you were still here and healthy.  Things would be so interesting and different.

I already know you love this baby from your star house in heaven, but you would be having so much fun with her here.  She’s got this big giant personality and you two would be two peas in a pod.  I need to remember to show her more pictures of you.

Mother’s day is right around the corner and I can’t keep out of my mind the great influence you had on me as a mother figure.  Going through my stuff stored in dads basement last night was a trip down memory lane… the cute purse you got me for Christmas one year even though when I saw it in the mall I made fun of it.  That was a big lesson for me, in humility and open-mindedness.  You taught me that it’s important to be kind in any situation, because you never know if someone’s sensitivities are in play.  I ended up loving that purse dearly.

You challenged me to enjoy your spontaneous but calculated nature.  You encouraged me to revel in the blessings we’re given and not squander moments by worrying too much.  I have to concentrate hard to remember these lessons.  You made it look so effortless, I miss that.

I miss lots of things about you, but I’m glad we had you while we did.  We all miss you so much and wish you were still here and healthy, but we’re glad you’re watching over us.  Happy Mother’s Day.

Wish You Were Here With Advice

It’s so much harder than I ever thought it would be.  Being a mom is no “walk in the park”.  I can’t imagine what people do when they have a second child.  Being in a relationship is a weird evolution that you don’t see until you look back across the backstory.  I fell in love with Michael and eventually realized I wanted to see him become a dad.  Our plan to get pregnant worked perfectly and the timing was absolutely golden.  But as our relationship goes on, I do mourn (a little bit) what we USED to be.  It’s hard to communicate my feelings about the current state of things.  I’m certainly more stable than when Bethany was a newborn, and I love watching her grow and develop.  Her little personality fascinates me and I revel in nurturing her.  But the balance of trying to be a great mother and a great wife/partner swings wildly all over the place for me.  In my opinion, it’s absolutely not attainable for me to be a happy, balanced, content mother and wife.  If I’m a happy mother (the baby is fed, happy, entertained), the wife in me suffers (the house is a wreck, my hair isn’t brushed, I’m fat, I have no makeup on—I’m not a desirable person).  If I’m relaxed as a wife (I’m out of the house, someone else is watching the baby), I’m missing out on spending time with the baby.  And for some reason, it’s impossible for the 3 of us to sit still and spend time with each other within the confines of the homestead.  I want to cry, much of the time, and when I do I feel guilty because I’m crying again.  Nobody wants to hang out with someone who seems so sad… no wonder we can’t all be in the same household.

So I wish you were still here to be my sounding board.  What’s the answer here? 

Thoughts Around Christmas Time

I know you’re looking down on us, your presence is always felt.  Even though the time when you were here gets farther and farther away in the past, the memories we’ve made together never get further than my subconscious.  I’m still grateful we have so many pictures to document the good times.  Christmas is really hard to get through without being sad because you’re not with us.  But for the first time in a few years, I really felt the holiday spirit and enjoyed the heck out of spending time with my family.  There’s just something special about this time of year, and you loved it so much—I’m starting to see why.

If you were still here, you would be so proud of Kirkland—he’s such a well-mannered kid, and he’s so stinking smart.  It boggles my mind that he’s READING, I know it would impress you.  And if you were still here you’d be so excited to be preparing for the birth of my baby daughter.  I’m overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of my loving family, everyone seems to be surrounding Michael and I with all the warmest wishes and support we could possibly hope for.  I wish you were here to rest your hand on my growing belly and feel your granddaughter kicking inside.  But I know you’re watching over us, and I can feel you in my heart and I can hear your advice in little memory whispers.

Most of all, I just miss your warm hugs and your reassuring presence.  But that presence, too, isn’t ever too far off from the here and now.  Everything you ever taught me is still with me, and all the loving feelings are wrapped up and tangled and woven within our whole family.  We miss you so much, but I’m starting to feel at peace with the fact that life continues on.  And while it’s still not fair or fun, there are new things that will happen and memories that will be made, and you’ll never ever be forgotten, just a little farther away than we’d prefer.  I love you so much and I wish you were still here and healthy, but I’m so glad for the time we had with you.  I can’t wait to tell baby Bethany all about her Grandma Arlene that she never got to meet, and show her lots of pictures of you.  

I miss you so much, and love you so much, and I very much wish you were still here.

I Still Remember What You Did

I still remember the little things.  It kills me that I took them for granted in the past, but I cherish the memories of them now.  Fair pageants, you brought flowers.  Any type of concert or special event, you were there in the crowd to support me. 
I missed you so much on our wedding day, but in a way I had a calm peace about it-- because you were with me through the whole planning process, you had a hand in the beautiful weather, and you were with me all day in my heart. 
I miss you so much and I wish you were still here.

Just A Thought About Christmas

I don’t need presents.  I suppose there was a time in my childhood when I thought I needed gifts, but that time has long since passed.  Approaching 30, I certainly don’t feel like I need gifts now.

But it’s hard to forget the special magic that you injected into every Christmas by getting me something I didn’t know what I wanted or needed.  You had your own way of doing it, too.  I keep kicking myself, I took so much time for granted.  I never appreciated it enough at the time.  It’s hard to describe the feeling that I get when I’m thinking about it now… how there were always thoughtfully chosen gifts.  Some were your way of pulling together the families, uniting us in a little club (Pandora), some were your way of injecting your own artsy style into our wardrobes (scarves, clothes), and some were for pure fun (cameras, computers, decorations).  It always amazed me how you managed to capture everybody’s perfect personality with your offerings.  I am resigned to the fact that you had a talent that I will never, ever possess. 

Gift-giving was so special to you and it’s always been a source of anxiety for me, so I hope that you never felt dampened by my Grinchy attitude.  I don’t know why it doesn’t come as naturally to me. 

And for as much as I never needed presents, and certainly don’t need them now, I do miss the excitement of watching you watching me on Christmas morning.  I think I’ll always wonder what you would have gotten me each year, if you were still here.

Daisy by Marc Jacobs

I wore a spritz of Daisy by Marc Jacobs today, and I can’t stop smelling it on my wrist.  It reminds me of a warm hug from you and it takes me back to when you were close enough for one. 

Some of the reflexes don’t go away.  I still pick up the phone to call or text you.  I still expect to see your face in a recent family photo.  I still expect you to show up at a family function. 

Aunt Kimmy’s wedding photo from Marathon Key last thanksgiving is the calendar picture for November, and it’s so full of people we love and smiles and sunshine and sand, and it’s just missing your smiling face.  The bright beacon of your presence, for me, is the spray of flowers on the arch in the background… your idea for blue and orange flowers.  It was such a magical week of grieving, healing, marriage, celebration… I wish we could go every year.  I always feel so close to you at the beach.

And now we’re planning my bachelorette party, and the wedding details are ironing themselves out—and it’s all happening and I just wish you were here for it all.