It is Going to be a Difficult Day
I just woke up and the only thought I have is of you. What is going on in your mind right now? Do you know that you are at the hospital? Are you in pain? I wish I could see you, meet you, maybe we can talk while the sun rays filter into your room and brighten it up. Instead, I am oceans away from you.
I leave my bed with a heavy heart. My feet feel even heavier.
I try to start my day like it is any other day even though every fiber in my being knows otherwise. I cuddle with my kids a little longer before they are fully able to shake out of their slumbers. They met you, their Grand Uncle, when they were oh-so-little. You gave Arya a “Hello Kitty” stuff toy. We still have it. They don’t remember you and your luminous face. Your flowing white beard and your silvery hair. They don’t remember how softly you spoke and how your eyes scrunched up when you smiled your broad smile.
But I remember it all.
As I remind my kids to brush their teeth a little longer, I hear my voice: it sounds foreign and louder than usual. Like I want to drown out the sadness in my head with my booming words. I take the morning rush routine with a renewed fervor. At least it is something I can control. If I am quick and loud enough the kids won’t be late for school. But for you, I can do nothing. I must make sure we won’t be late for school.
The doctors are saying your condition is critical. I know you are surrounded by tubes and IVs but that is not where I will allow my mind to wander. Instead I find myself hovering around your house. I enter your study where you are blowing thick cigar smoke rings. They rise up like magical clouds glowing in the sunlight. You turn to look at me and smile. My daughter asks for her breakfast and the memory suddenly vanishes. A memory that I have carried fondly for 30 years since I was a little girl. A memory that evokes feelings that are as fresh as yesterday’s shower.
I am back in my kitchen. Far away from you. The distance, in miles, is the same as it has been for most of my life but it seems more today. Your voice must be the same as it sounded a few weeks ago when we spoke over the phone but why is it that I long to hear it much more today than I did ever before?
I belt my baby in the car seat and pull out of the driveway. I breathe in. It is going to be an interminable day. I feel emotionally exhausted and it is not even 8 a.m. I will have to smile at passersby; they don’t know what turmoil rages inside my heart. I will have to kiss and comfort my kid even though today I need it more than she does. I will have to turn in the work because no one else’s world is falling apart. I get on the road. The only place I want to go right now is next to you. But I drive to school. And the world goes on.
