Halloween
12 years ago
Friday, January 23, 2015
Happy Biking Thoughts
I've been riding my bike lately, which is good, since I hate exercise. I started last summer to help deal with anxiety. I was thinking the other day, as I was riding along, it might be funny to jot down some of the things that I think when I am going along. I have trouble getting my mind to settle down. I try counting the breaths or concentrating on the music, but before long my thoughts are drifting on to "what if someone is breaking into my car RIGHT NOW?! I left my bag out where people could see it." Or my foot is cold, my foot is cold, my foot is cold." "Is that a gorilla over there? I swear to God that is a gorrill.....OH its a horses butt!" To deal with anxiety in general, when it's really really bad I focus on a movie or TV show and try to rethink through the whole thing from start to finish without forgetting anything. I was thinking about the Lord of the Rings. I was thinking that it felt like I was Frodo off to Mordor to drop the ring off. Only in my situation it would be me hopefully dropping my fat off in Mordoor. HA! God I am so funny. "OHPS, don't crash the bike. God it's cold. Who's brilliant idea was this? It's almost dark. I'm no where near done. I'm going to freeze out here!! No one knows where I am. Oh my God. No one knows where I am. I have a phone. If something happens I have my phone. Poor Frodo, he didn't have a phone. I'm sure there were butterfly's along the way. Why didn't they just get a butterfly to get an eagle for them to ride? Well, there would be no story if they rode the eagles all the way to Mordor. I wonder what it would have been like if they had bikes to ride part of the way? Hobbits and bikes, that's funny. I'm pretty sure they had bikes. My butt hurts. AHhh, that's better. This sucks! NO. I love this...." And I truly do. It feels kinda like flying. (Only your legs are working and your arms are working to keep your fat old body on the bike seat.) But really, it's dusk, in winter. And the mountains are glorious. Everything is a pinkishy warm hue-mostly from the sun setting through the smog. The sun hits the clouds and they are fiery reds and pinks. (That's where the idea of Mordor probably came from, only then I start to do math.) " Well if I rode to the point in the mountain where the sun is setting and everything is on fire that would be way out west, and it takes us an hour to drive to the Larry Miller raceway-and that's an hour going 75 or 80 miles an hour, I do about 12 miles in an hour...oh great! I'd never make it. I can't even be out after dark alone by myself! WAIT, why are there so many cars leaving Bountiful? Has the zombie apocalypse happened and I don't know about it and I'm out here by myself and no one is going to call me because they are all running away or being eaten by zombies? Did they forget me? There are WAY too many people going to the free way. Can I out ride a zombie? HUM, maybe for a while. I haven't gotten any texts lately, usually when I ride I get text messages. I wonder...." And here my Chipmunks singing a Christmas song ring tone plays- because yes, its the 20 something of January and I haven't changed my ring tone....."Oh thank god, they are calling me, they didn't forget me! OH, its the orthodontist automated reminder call....Well, I guess zombie apocalypse is a little far fetched. I hope Glen can take Gomer to the orthodontist. There are an odd number of cars on the road. I've never seen cars backed up on the Legacy freeway before. Oh ice on the path. ICE ON THE PATH!! OMG don't crash, don't crash!! Oh my God, I almost crashed. My finger hurts! Did anyone see that? All those cars are backed up, they probably all saw me." Thankfully, there was no crashing, but I did go on to compare my bike to Sam carrying Frodo up the mountain. I feel like my bike did most the work that day. My fat wasn't delivered to the fiery pit of doom, but maybe someday it will be.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Snow Plow
Repost from Russisms.com original date April 7 2010:
There are only a few entries here. They vividly capture and describe my loss. Where there is no where to turn, no other way to alleviate the pain, there has always been words. The greif ebbs and flows like the sea, sometimes the tide is out, and you can stand on the soft sand and see it, even feel the spray of it on your face, but the waves do not strike you with force and it is even beautiful sometimes. You are greatful for the chance to stand here and experience it. And then on other days, maybe the next day or just hours after the calmer sea, the tide changes and the dark waves come crashing in to you, stealing the foundation you stand on-even trying to pull you under. If you were to give in and let it carry you away, you would drown. I have noticed the change in the tide. It seems to be a work truck like he used to drive, or a shirt he used to wear, or a smell, or a certain light of day, but most of all it is things like an empty happy evening we would have been together for a bar-b-que or a phone call that I would have most certainly called him first. Car troubles seem to bring it out for me the worst. After all this time, and after so many car issues I always seem to have you would think that it would get better...but it has not, at least not yet. During a recent snow storm I got caught at the bottom of two slippery hills and could not drive up either. I would have called him, and he would have at least been there to come get me. I called my mom, who was out of the area, who told me later she had a few words for my father. She said late,r she knew I was upset because I wanted him. I cant seem to hold it together when these things happen. I cry and cry and cry. I honestly and with as much self control as I can, I try to not get upset. I have read in more than one book, that when the waves of greif come, let them come. It is like trying to hold back the sea. It is and should be impossible. For this was one of only a few people who have been here my whole life, who held me first, who kissed me first, who know me not only as an adult but also as a little child. They are the thread, the line, the door to my whole existence. My first cries and laughes are all tied to only a few, possibly only two people. One is dead. And that is supposed to hurt. Especially since he was there my whole life. On every big fat wet snowflake that hits my car this night it comes back to me. The joys and the regrets. They all hurt the same. And later my mom asks, would I give any of it up? NO. No I would not. For those great funny memories. His big strong hand on my shoulder. The money he used to slip me even when I'd protest. The things he taught me. The smell of gunpowder. The sound his recliner made when he was letting the foot rest down to get up. His laugh. The way he used to say my name. My first bike. My first vehicle. The way he opposed my first homecoming dress and stalked off down the hall. Barbeque, many words..."mudder", "yellow-" when he'd answer the phone. It all came down, each memory on its own snowflake, covering the car, covering me here. And then the snowplow came. It passed along the road above me. And I thought, there is no way that it will come down here. And a few minutes it did. And we followed it, slipping and sliding all the way up the hill. And then back down to home, where I could call my mom and my brother and tell them they didnt need to come get me. Where I could finish crying, and be thankful in a very weird way that I had so many good memories, SO many funny memories that could fill up the ocean. I could be sad and thankful all at the same time while those waves of greif crash in on me. And I can wait, if everyone else around me can wait for just a little while....while I stand sometimes at the edge of the ocean with the waves of greif pounding in and pulling out, my heart broke for what I have lost. And the snow plow. The snow plow will come. I will get traction again. And I may slip and slide up that damn hill but I will get up again.
There are only a few entries here. They vividly capture and describe my loss. Where there is no where to turn, no other way to alleviate the pain, there has always been words. The greif ebbs and flows like the sea, sometimes the tide is out, and you can stand on the soft sand and see it, even feel the spray of it on your face, but the waves do not strike you with force and it is even beautiful sometimes. You are greatful for the chance to stand here and experience it. And then on other days, maybe the next day or just hours after the calmer sea, the tide changes and the dark waves come crashing in to you, stealing the foundation you stand on-even trying to pull you under. If you were to give in and let it carry you away, you would drown. I have noticed the change in the tide. It seems to be a work truck like he used to drive, or a shirt he used to wear, or a smell, or a certain light of day, but most of all it is things like an empty happy evening we would have been together for a bar-b-que or a phone call that I would have most certainly called him first. Car troubles seem to bring it out for me the worst. After all this time, and after so many car issues I always seem to have you would think that it would get better...but it has not, at least not yet. During a recent snow storm I got caught at the bottom of two slippery hills and could not drive up either. I would have called him, and he would have at least been there to come get me. I called my mom, who was out of the area, who told me later she had a few words for my father. She said late,r she knew I was upset because I wanted him. I cant seem to hold it together when these things happen. I cry and cry and cry. I honestly and with as much self control as I can, I try to not get upset. I have read in more than one book, that when the waves of greif come, let them come. It is like trying to hold back the sea. It is and should be impossible. For this was one of only a few people who have been here my whole life, who held me first, who kissed me first, who know me not only as an adult but also as a little child. They are the thread, the line, the door to my whole existence. My first cries and laughes are all tied to only a few, possibly only two people. One is dead. And that is supposed to hurt. Especially since he was there my whole life. On every big fat wet snowflake that hits my car this night it comes back to me. The joys and the regrets. They all hurt the same. And later my mom asks, would I give any of it up? NO. No I would not. For those great funny memories. His big strong hand on my shoulder. The money he used to slip me even when I'd protest. The things he taught me. The smell of gunpowder. The sound his recliner made when he was letting the foot rest down to get up. His laugh. The way he used to say my name. My first bike. My first vehicle. The way he opposed my first homecoming dress and stalked off down the hall. Barbeque, many words..."mudder", "yellow-" when he'd answer the phone. It all came down, each memory on its own snowflake, covering the car, covering me here. And then the snowplow came. It passed along the road above me. And I thought, there is no way that it will come down here. And a few minutes it did. And we followed it, slipping and sliding all the way up the hill. And then back down to home, where I could call my mom and my brother and tell them they didnt need to come get me. Where I could finish crying, and be thankful in a very weird way that I had so many good memories, SO many funny memories that could fill up the ocean. I could be sad and thankful all at the same time while those waves of greif crash in on me. And I can wait, if everyone else around me can wait for just a little while....while I stand sometimes at the edge of the ocean with the waves of greif pounding in and pulling out, my heart broke for what I have lost. And the snow plow. The snow plow will come. I will get traction again. And I may slip and slide up that damn hill but I will get up again.
The Grief
Repost from Russisms.com original date February 6 2010:
The last month or so I have been reading about grief. I look back at the last few months and I cant remember whole days, or what I did. I have sucked ASS at work. It is a wonder the house has not caught fire and the kids are all still alive. Other days seem like a dream. I dont remember really living them. Christmas was a bland, thankless, hopless holiday that I barely survived. It is an unsaid thing with lots of people that I know, or maybe I am just assuming, but the underlying feeling that I should not be this upset, this undone-anymore. But I am. I thought, and had people say to me- "you are depressed." I dont feel depressed. I know that it odd coming from someone who can't stop crying, or can't concentrate, or can't work, but I am not suicidal. I am not self loathing or concentrated on myself. I want to go to the doctor, but I know all he will do is write me a perscription for an anti depressant and want me to see the therapist. (The therapist I have already seen and stopped seeing becuase he told me about a year ago the answer to my problems was to get divorced.) I don't mind trying to find another therapist. I have one in mind. But I need something now. I check out some books from the library, some pretty good ones that explain grief and the difference between it and depression. I am not depressed. And I dont need medication because that is exactly my problem. I have tried not to feel. I have tried to stay busy, and make plans and surround myself with people, and I got caught up in not getting down to the nitty gritty of the pain. Of the realization that most of all- the first or second person who ever held me is dead. That one of the two voices I already knew before I was even born-he is dead. My lifelong attatchment to safety and security and a sureity that no matter what came along, I would be alright, well, he is dead. I tried so hard to be okay, and I realized that I cant make myself be okay. Just like I knew when I was first in love that I was in love....That love, just like this grief has to run its own course. I can't control it deep inside. I can weild it I guess. I can shove it down and pretend it isnt happeneing, but that doesnt make it go away. It is still there. As awful and as great as it is, this grief is the last thing I was given by my dad. People say they find good it grief. AND that is never goes away. I realize the people that say it gets better over time are well meaning and all, but they either have never had someone die that is close to them, or they are just plain lying to you in kindness to try and make you feel better. And I dont know what people should have said to help, probably nothing. There is nothing I can say to my friend who lost her baby about a year ago to make her feel better. It is so odd in our society that we feel like we have to make everything "better" again as soon as possible. This has changed me. I am a different person. I am not sure who I am anymore or yet, but I know there are a few things I used to love and now I care not for them. There are things I did not mind so much and now, the thought of them lights fires in my brain. I believe it might be the grief that makes me worry so when my family drives away in the car. All happy and together, and me alone getting ready for work. And crying. I cant stop crying when they drive away until they come home. My dad drove away, and he NEVER came home. He said goodbye to us all that bright happy day and...well everyone knows the rest. Those long sleepless nights. Those shadowy haunting dreams. The long endless days that feel like they never really happened. And I worry. I am next. My kids are next. Glen is next. My mom. Gram. Granny Gee. We are all just a day away? A week away? A year. I do not know. And this worry, I suppose that is the peace I search for. Coming to peace with death. Knowing that it is okay for me to strive for what I want to do because there will be some meaning in the end. In my death. For now, why should I try? WHy do I work hard and be better? I will just die. Why train the dog or clean the house or go to school or go to work? I will go off one day and hopefully die a quick and near painless way. And what will I leave behind? Money? It doesnt help if the people who love me feel the way I feel about my dad. All the money in the world wont make my little broken heart. Pictures? I cant even look at pictures yet. I have empty spaces on the walls where his pictures are supposed to go. And they say everyone's grief is different. No one knows the journey for someone else. I try to think rationally, that just cause my family has just driven off they will not end up all dead on the side of the road somewhere, but in this grief, in this worry and in this bottomless search for some peace, I am afraid. I believe in life after death. I believe we choose eachother before birth and there fore logically would end up together after death. But I do not feel my dad. He is gone. He is nowhere. He has not come except only in a dream. And I am sorry, and I am selfish, but that is NOT good enough. I know Gramps is out there. I have felt him and smelled him and heard him. But dad. He has diserted me. He has given up on me, on our relationship? He is busy people say. He is with people that need him. WHAT AM I? I have been moved into his perverbial spot-worried about all these people around me. They calling me for help and advice. They looking to me to go "rip off some heads and shit down some necks" as he used to say. Everyone else gets to be....they get to be. No one asks me-how are you? That grief has been reserved for my mother. I am her strenghth, her protector. But mine? HE IS DEAD. He is dead. And I feel guilty and selfish and a failure because I cant concentrate or get shit done. And I cry for no reason, and I hate going to work. And I hate that I let the little problems that happened after he died grow into big problems. And I hate that I didnt just do this in the beginning. That it's almost two years out and I still feel this way. I looked at all those pictures the first few weeks, and I died a thousand deaths those days, and now, I cant stand to look at one. And it's inevitable. If I want to move on from this part, I need to face it, and feel it. And try not to let other things get in the way. But at the same time I am trying to be better. A better person, make better decisions, find some peace. Let me say, the day he died, Dad came in and Justin ran in and met him in the hall at the top of the stairs. Dad picked him up and I watched him. He stood there for a long moment hugging that baby boy. And I watched him and I remember thinking "that is weird, that is extra long....what is going on?" and deep down I knew. I KNEW!! Dad walked down the hall just a bit out of my sight, he still had Justin and they were talking. I could not hear. After a moment they walked back into my sight and dad looked at me, he smiled. He put Justin down. AND I KNEW!!! Oh God I knew. Dad moved on to talking with the other boys and sitting and talking and eating at the table. And somehow I try to pretend that through Justin he was hugging me also. And I wish. And I say, I promise I would have let him go on that day to do what ever he needed to do. I would have let him go and drive away that day if he would only hug me. TOUCH ME. Please. Let's go back to that day. I will let you go.
I can do nothing but sob for a while. I can barely breath in this pain. The storm of that memory subsides and the cold, knawing pains of everyday life return in it's place. This is where I live for now. If you were to look inside me I am stormy and torn apart. I am afraid. And I have no answers. I fear those moments when people touch me alittle longer or say I love you a little out of place, I scream into myself afraid that this is a LAST moment. Pay attention you idiot. And I remember that last moment. The moment I knew looking back. We all die. I am not afraid of that. People I love will be there. I know that. I am afraid of being a survivor. Am I strong enough? What do I have to give? Should I even be worried about giving a lot right now? There is not a whole lot for me to hand out....I will go now. And I will pretend that it does not hurt so much. I will pretend that I can do it and that I just have a cold if you call and I sound funny (if I answer the phone at all.) I will cry in my car alone when I meet someone that reminds me of my dad. I will continue to try to judge just how much to share when you ask how I'm doing. And that I am okay, becuause most people I know still have both parents and just arent sure what to do or what to say. And I will go today and put the flowers the kids and I picked out for Grandpa on his grave. And I will try not to think about how much it is not my dad under that frozen ground, and I will try not to think about how soft and warm he was or how big and strong his hands are. I will go and while afraid for other deaths, other heartbreaks to come, I will look for peace and try to come through this, maybe not the same person but still somewhat intact.....
The last month or so I have been reading about grief. I look back at the last few months and I cant remember whole days, or what I did. I have sucked ASS at work. It is a wonder the house has not caught fire and the kids are all still alive. Other days seem like a dream. I dont remember really living them. Christmas was a bland, thankless, hopless holiday that I barely survived. It is an unsaid thing with lots of people that I know, or maybe I am just assuming, but the underlying feeling that I should not be this upset, this undone-anymore. But I am. I thought, and had people say to me- "you are depressed." I dont feel depressed. I know that it odd coming from someone who can't stop crying, or can't concentrate, or can't work, but I am not suicidal. I am not self loathing or concentrated on myself. I want to go to the doctor, but I know all he will do is write me a perscription for an anti depressant and want me to see the therapist. (The therapist I have already seen and stopped seeing becuase he told me about a year ago the answer to my problems was to get divorced.) I don't mind trying to find another therapist. I have one in mind. But I need something now. I check out some books from the library, some pretty good ones that explain grief and the difference between it and depression. I am not depressed. And I dont need medication because that is exactly my problem. I have tried not to feel. I have tried to stay busy, and make plans and surround myself with people, and I got caught up in not getting down to the nitty gritty of the pain. Of the realization that most of all- the first or second person who ever held me is dead. That one of the two voices I already knew before I was even born-he is dead. My lifelong attatchment to safety and security and a sureity that no matter what came along, I would be alright, well, he is dead. I tried so hard to be okay, and I realized that I cant make myself be okay. Just like I knew when I was first in love that I was in love....That love, just like this grief has to run its own course. I can't control it deep inside. I can weild it I guess. I can shove it down and pretend it isnt happeneing, but that doesnt make it go away. It is still there. As awful and as great as it is, this grief is the last thing I was given by my dad. People say they find good it grief. AND that is never goes away. I realize the people that say it gets better over time are well meaning and all, but they either have never had someone die that is close to them, or they are just plain lying to you in kindness to try and make you feel better. And I dont know what people should have said to help, probably nothing. There is nothing I can say to my friend who lost her baby about a year ago to make her feel better. It is so odd in our society that we feel like we have to make everything "better" again as soon as possible. This has changed me. I am a different person. I am not sure who I am anymore or yet, but I know there are a few things I used to love and now I care not for them. There are things I did not mind so much and now, the thought of them lights fires in my brain. I believe it might be the grief that makes me worry so when my family drives away in the car. All happy and together, and me alone getting ready for work. And crying. I cant stop crying when they drive away until they come home. My dad drove away, and he NEVER came home. He said goodbye to us all that bright happy day and...well everyone knows the rest. Those long sleepless nights. Those shadowy haunting dreams. The long endless days that feel like they never really happened. And I worry. I am next. My kids are next. Glen is next. My mom. Gram. Granny Gee. We are all just a day away? A week away? A year. I do not know. And this worry, I suppose that is the peace I search for. Coming to peace with death. Knowing that it is okay for me to strive for what I want to do because there will be some meaning in the end. In my death. For now, why should I try? WHy do I work hard and be better? I will just die. Why train the dog or clean the house or go to school or go to work? I will go off one day and hopefully die a quick and near painless way. And what will I leave behind? Money? It doesnt help if the people who love me feel the way I feel about my dad. All the money in the world wont make my little broken heart. Pictures? I cant even look at pictures yet. I have empty spaces on the walls where his pictures are supposed to go. And they say everyone's grief is different. No one knows the journey for someone else. I try to think rationally, that just cause my family has just driven off they will not end up all dead on the side of the road somewhere, but in this grief, in this worry and in this bottomless search for some peace, I am afraid. I believe in life after death. I believe we choose eachother before birth and there fore logically would end up together after death. But I do not feel my dad. He is gone. He is nowhere. He has not come except only in a dream. And I am sorry, and I am selfish, but that is NOT good enough. I know Gramps is out there. I have felt him and smelled him and heard him. But dad. He has diserted me. He has given up on me, on our relationship? He is busy people say. He is with people that need him. WHAT AM I? I have been moved into his perverbial spot-worried about all these people around me. They calling me for help and advice. They looking to me to go "rip off some heads and shit down some necks" as he used to say. Everyone else gets to be....they get to be. No one asks me-how are you? That grief has been reserved for my mother. I am her strenghth, her protector. But mine? HE IS DEAD. He is dead. And I feel guilty and selfish and a failure because I cant concentrate or get shit done. And I cry for no reason, and I hate going to work. And I hate that I let the little problems that happened after he died grow into big problems. And I hate that I didnt just do this in the beginning. That it's almost two years out and I still feel this way. I looked at all those pictures the first few weeks, and I died a thousand deaths those days, and now, I cant stand to look at one. And it's inevitable. If I want to move on from this part, I need to face it, and feel it. And try not to let other things get in the way. But at the same time I am trying to be better. A better person, make better decisions, find some peace. Let me say, the day he died, Dad came in and Justin ran in and met him in the hall at the top of the stairs. Dad picked him up and I watched him. He stood there for a long moment hugging that baby boy. And I watched him and I remember thinking "that is weird, that is extra long....what is going on?" and deep down I knew. I KNEW!! Dad walked down the hall just a bit out of my sight, he still had Justin and they were talking. I could not hear. After a moment they walked back into my sight and dad looked at me, he smiled. He put Justin down. AND I KNEW!!! Oh God I knew. Dad moved on to talking with the other boys and sitting and talking and eating at the table. And somehow I try to pretend that through Justin he was hugging me also. And I wish. And I say, I promise I would have let him go on that day to do what ever he needed to do. I would have let him go and drive away that day if he would only hug me. TOUCH ME. Please. Let's go back to that day. I will let you go.
I can do nothing but sob for a while. I can barely breath in this pain. The storm of that memory subsides and the cold, knawing pains of everyday life return in it's place. This is where I live for now. If you were to look inside me I am stormy and torn apart. I am afraid. And I have no answers. I fear those moments when people touch me alittle longer or say I love you a little out of place, I scream into myself afraid that this is a LAST moment. Pay attention you idiot. And I remember that last moment. The moment I knew looking back. We all die. I am not afraid of that. People I love will be there. I know that. I am afraid of being a survivor. Am I strong enough? What do I have to give? Should I even be worried about giving a lot right now? There is not a whole lot for me to hand out....I will go now. And I will pretend that it does not hurt so much. I will pretend that I can do it and that I just have a cold if you call and I sound funny (if I answer the phone at all.) I will cry in my car alone when I meet someone that reminds me of my dad. I will continue to try to judge just how much to share when you ask how I'm doing. And that I am okay, becuause most people I know still have both parents and just arent sure what to do or what to say. And I will go today and put the flowers the kids and I picked out for Grandpa on his grave. And I will try not to think about how much it is not my dad under that frozen ground, and I will try not to think about how soft and warm he was or how big and strong his hands are. I will go and while afraid for other deaths, other heartbreaks to come, I will look for peace and try to come through this, maybe not the same person but still somewhat intact.....
Carry me please.
Repost from Russisms.com original date September 12 2009:
There is not as much laughter. Sorry. There is just not. Our days are different. Our holidays. Our birthdays. I feel myself, most of me is here. Most of me. The other day I needed you so bad. I needed to call you-about rewiring a three way switch. I know that you may not have known exactly what the problem was but you still would have been here. It hasn't happened for a while but today was a day that I had to realize over again you are dead. Not that I ever forget, but the reality hit me. And it can be the nicest, sunniest day and I just feel cold inside. I need to know what you would do. What you would want me to do. I need to know how to handle the things you would normally handle. You left. And there are just things I can't do alone. And that is how I feel. Alone. As much as I smile. As much as I try to be okay. I am alone. I feel like you are gone forever. I thought I would feel you- sense you. Where are you? People said it would be better-and the shock, the frantic desperation of such a sudden loss has finally calmed inside, but now I just feel--empty. Things have changed. I have changed. And life could be worse. But I want to scream that it is worse. No one loved me like you. I realized that the other night, as I recounted the day you came to check the lugnuts on the tire I changed myself and I called at 4 in the morning. I know you remember that day. There were others I asked to come and they wouldn't. But you came. And you weren't angry. You werent mad. You came just to check the lugnuts and help me lift the tire. Who would come now? Is there anyone to count on who would be there. No. I feel there is not. It is three days after my birthday today. And I just miss you so much. Yappy Barfday to coin the phrase. God, I miss you. " I wanted you to know, I love the way laugh."- Seether. "I keep your photograph..." "Cause i'm broken..." and that's just the way I feel. It was good to have something to look forward to- planning parties etc. I think I overdid it. I am overwhelmed, BUT when things calm down, you're still gone, and when I am alone, I am still alone. I still don't know what to do about things. People still think i'm a f-in moron and I dont know what i'm talking about-even though those same people want me to fix everything. I wish I had known more of what it was like for you. I would have said something. I put that in my note to you-the note that is there by your hand. I have said that outloud to you- but I don't think you hear me. I think I feel like I have to fix everything because I could't things for you. That maybe you would have been here for just a bit longer if things would have been a little different. If I would have listened. When Bilbo says to Gandolf in the Lord of the Rings that he feels like butter spread over too much bread- I think you felt that way. And I feel that way. Stretched. Alone. I remember you saying....People take. They ask if you are ok. And you are- for the most part. You are invincible. People count on you. They need you. GOD, they need you to fix everything. Plan everything. Know everything. Alone. I wish you could see how hard I have worked to be healthier. I wish you could see me. You seem so gone. Where are you? Are you happy? I was making a video for you and mom for your suprize 31st wedding anniversary last Nov. One of the songs was talking about don't loose the time to come....that we need to talk about it....and GOD, it was like I knew. I knew. I think that is why I am so angry that I didn't say, all I needed to say. I have fought through so much and you were here. I screwed up so much and you where here. I hate feeling so alone. Is this my test? Are you at the end? I hate not knowing what to do. AND I HATE this empty, empty feeling knowing its my birthday, and you are gone. I had to go see you on my birthday. I had to go stand on your grave and give you flowers- on my birthday. And what I want the most in the entire world is for you to hug me, for you to say "yappy barfday," for you to put your hand on my neck. For you to say nothing, to do nothing, for you to just be here. For me to know that you are here. If only for a minute. I know you are busy, and other people need you. But I need you too. Rational. Unemotional. Push those emotions down. I have to go do stuff. Prepare. Get better organized for this upcoming week. Dry the tears, reapply some makeup so that no one knows anything is wrong. (Except for the poor unlucky soul who reads this...Do you get internet in heaven?? LOL) But for a moment I wish you could be here. And I could be your little girl, your daughter. And I could cry, and you could pick me up. Daddy pick me up. Please carry me, Please carry me. (and P.S. I need a gun, and there is no one to go with me.) I miss you.
There is not as much laughter. Sorry. There is just not. Our days are different. Our holidays. Our birthdays. I feel myself, most of me is here. Most of me. The other day I needed you so bad. I needed to call you-about rewiring a three way switch. I know that you may not have known exactly what the problem was but you still would have been here. It hasn't happened for a while but today was a day that I had to realize over again you are dead. Not that I ever forget, but the reality hit me. And it can be the nicest, sunniest day and I just feel cold inside. I need to know what you would do. What you would want me to do. I need to know how to handle the things you would normally handle. You left. And there are just things I can't do alone. And that is how I feel. Alone. As much as I smile. As much as I try to be okay. I am alone. I feel like you are gone forever. I thought I would feel you- sense you. Where are you? People said it would be better-and the shock, the frantic desperation of such a sudden loss has finally calmed inside, but now I just feel--empty. Things have changed. I have changed. And life could be worse. But I want to scream that it is worse. No one loved me like you. I realized that the other night, as I recounted the day you came to check the lugnuts on the tire I changed myself and I called at 4 in the morning. I know you remember that day. There were others I asked to come and they wouldn't. But you came. And you weren't angry. You werent mad. You came just to check the lugnuts and help me lift the tire. Who would come now? Is there anyone to count on who would be there. No. I feel there is not. It is three days after my birthday today. And I just miss you so much. Yappy Barfday to coin the phrase. God, I miss you. " I wanted you to know, I love the way laugh."- Seether. "I keep your photograph..." "Cause i'm broken..." and that's just the way I feel. It was good to have something to look forward to- planning parties etc. I think I overdid it. I am overwhelmed, BUT when things calm down, you're still gone, and when I am alone, I am still alone. I still don't know what to do about things. People still think i'm a f-in moron and I dont know what i'm talking about-even though those same people want me to fix everything. I wish I had known more of what it was like for you. I would have said something. I put that in my note to you-the note that is there by your hand. I have said that outloud to you- but I don't think you hear me. I think I feel like I have to fix everything because I could't things for you. That maybe you would have been here for just a bit longer if things would have been a little different. If I would have listened. When Bilbo says to Gandolf in the Lord of the Rings that he feels like butter spread over too much bread- I think you felt that way. And I feel that way. Stretched. Alone. I remember you saying....People take. They ask if you are ok. And you are- for the most part. You are invincible. People count on you. They need you. GOD, they need you to fix everything. Plan everything. Know everything. Alone. I wish you could see how hard I have worked to be healthier. I wish you could see me. You seem so gone. Where are you? Are you happy? I was making a video for you and mom for your suprize 31st wedding anniversary last Nov. One of the songs was talking about don't loose the time to come....that we need to talk about it....and GOD, it was like I knew. I knew. I think that is why I am so angry that I didn't say, all I needed to say. I have fought through so much and you were here. I screwed up so much and you where here. I hate feeling so alone. Is this my test? Are you at the end? I hate not knowing what to do. AND I HATE this empty, empty feeling knowing its my birthday, and you are gone. I had to go see you on my birthday. I had to go stand on your grave and give you flowers- on my birthday. And what I want the most in the entire world is for you to hug me, for you to say "yappy barfday," for you to put your hand on my neck. For you to say nothing, to do nothing, for you to just be here. For me to know that you are here. If only for a minute. I know you are busy, and other people need you. But I need you too. Rational. Unemotional. Push those emotions down. I have to go do stuff. Prepare. Get better organized for this upcoming week. Dry the tears, reapply some makeup so that no one knows anything is wrong. (Except for the poor unlucky soul who reads this...Do you get internet in heaven?? LOL) But for a moment I wish you could be here. And I could be your little girl, your daughter. And I could cry, and you could pick me up. Daddy pick me up. Please carry me, Please carry me. (and P.S. I need a gun, and there is no one to go with me.) I miss you.
2202825
Repost from Russisms.com original date July 9 2009:
2202825 is the mileage on Dad's blue truck this moment I sit in it on the warmest day so far this summer. It is the first and only time I have been able to get near it since he died. Wayne has come to pick up the truck and take it down to Vernal. Now this is a very good decicion I think my mom has made, to give the truck to Wayne. Wayne, is basically, my brother. In younger years he had problems with his parents, and he spent a lot of time at my house. Wayne, among very few, stuck with me through the hardest parts of my highschool years-especially when I got pregnant. He was there when babies where born, and he was there for weddings, and he was there for various family bar-b-ques and holidays. His kids called my dad "Papa Russ". And that brings us back to the truck. My dad gave Wayne opportunities to weld, and to work at Amos Rents. My dad loved Wayne. Wayne went on to school to learn to weld professionally. Chris, Amy and I obviously have stuff coming to us from "my dad." My mom slightly agonized over what to do with the truck. Personally, it killed me, even still this day, as I drive into the circle, and see it there. A memory maybe, a glimmer of a feeling, seeing that truck there, parked where it always had been- where it should be- I still think that dad is home. AND I think, no, he is not here. I have (I guess possibly morbid) thoughts regarding the fact that truck took him to the place he died. It drove him. He drove it. However it happened, someone, not my dad had to get into that truck, and bring it home that day. That day. So fast forward, to a cold night. It was the first time I had seen Wayne since the funeral. And we cried, in the front yard, steps away from that damn truck I could barely stand to look at because it was so him- still held so much of him. Wayne wanted the truck. Loved that truck as I truthfully do too....and as Wayne and I talked about it, I knew he needed that piece of my dad, possibly that biggest last piece of my dad that was unclaimed. He wanted it. So here it is today. He will take it, and I sit. To say goodbye. And I think about the day that truck was brought home about '93. I used to sit and listen to my Phantom of the Opera cassette tape in there untill my mom yelled at me to get out- The sound system was the greatest thing i'd heard yet! How many Sunday drives had we had in it? Sittin in the back, when sittin in the back wouldn't get you hauld in for breakin some seatbelt law. This truck moved us to this new house. It also hauled my inherited piece of my dad, the old Desert Dino race jeep. The Bountiful High parking sticker is still affixed to the passenger side window of the truck bed cover. I had to take a picture of the land of the free because of the brave sticker on the back window. And also of the tread lightly and fight back stickers advertising the fight to keep our public lands open to the public. I had driven this to school, and to parties. I did my fair share of unauthorized by father "wheeling" and also kissed and fought with also unauthorized by father boyfriends in this truck. Now I want to lay here on the seat in the sun and cry- but I fear my mom is watching and might think ive lost it so, instead, I just touch everypart of this truck that carried my dad around for so many years. The seat, blue and grey, the soft lined patterns of the fabric- the dirt that was unevitably my dads. Of course my mom had vaccummed the insides out but the seat still carried the pattern....The worn out buttons, the writing that used to be white on grey buttons. The rear view mirror-which wasnt the original. The original had met some fate-possibly by being ripped from the window in a fit of "Russ", but I wont say for sure. I touched the broken seat belts, and the dash guard and the stearing wheel adjustment nob where for many months there was a pair of nail clippers that hung there. I looked at the dash where there once was a bag of uneaten shelled sunflower seeds, and money-God there used to be money everywhere in there! In the ash tray....in the side door panells-along with lots of other junk. Sometimes there was a small handgun stashed somewhere that Dad would have to go retrieve before I could take the truck. I thought about this, sitting in the sun. Sitting in this truck that had been cleaned out of all things "my dad". And I go back to how many Christmas's had this truck taken us to? How many pictures was this vehicle the backdrop in? Enough I guess. Enough for me to be able to let go, and be happy that Wayne wanted it so bad, AND I wouldnt have to look at it sitting in front of this house where my dad was supposed to be coming home to today, but would never. I try not to cry too much remembering how dad used to "let me shift" the gear shifter when we were driving when I was little, or how one day we were driving to Coalville and Dad was swerving all over the road while trying to get into a bag of Lays potato chips-and we got in a fight-AND he pulled off the road in a huff saying "you drive" while getting out to stomp to the back and lay down for the rest of the drive....the day the gear shifter came completely out of the floor in my hand on a down hill-and mom and I fixed it by ourselves because we knew Dad was too stressed out to tell him what had happened...I sit here, and think about all this, wanting to touch one of the last places he touched, the steering wheel, the door handle. And I do. I make myself. Its been a year. The worn out steering wheel. O god, the day he praised me while I towed the jeep on a trailer up hill through traffic. You know, I still pass that site while on the freeway and smile.....but yes, the steering wheel. The door handle. I try not to think about what had he done that day, those last moments, but I wander there. Desperate to hold onto those last few happy moments when he was alive. And i hope, GOD, please let them have been happy. Let him please not known he was going to die. And i cry. and cry. He had come to rescue me that night I got hit head on by someone driving the wrong way on the freeway. You know, i called him that night first, before the police. I climbed out of that Datsun, with Tyler as a baby, and walked almost a mile in the snow to a 7-11 to call my dad. Dad. Not the police, although the 7-11 guy had called the police for me. He picked me up in this truck, and we towed the car, in this truck. Cry. Pieces of your dad. Good memories, and bad. But mostly good. Cry. And feel that wheel, where his hands had been that afternoon. That door handle he had to shut to go inside to die. That door handle, the worn out paint, the scratches from the keys on the keyhole. And I cry. It is okay. He is happy now. He is with me now, when I need him. He is here, pain gone. Stress gone. And it is okay. It's okay. The truck goes with Wayne today. I'm okay with that. Dad wanted that. I say goodbye. I rest my head against the warm metal, the first and last time I could bear to touch that almost living and breathing beast. I shut the door. I linger over the handle. I take a picture of the inside. I walk away realizing I had memorized the odometer reading. 2202825. i know this number has no significance to anyone but me. But this is the mileage of the vehicle that brought my dad through this life. This is the marker of the moment, the moment, I had to say goodbye. There are a few, like the date, July 16. July 22. Gas at above four dollars, the heat of almost 100 degrees. About 1 o'clock. These things all markers in this sad story for me. When I pass by one of these markers, I tend to remember. I tend to need to say outloud, how sad that it is, that still, my dad is gone. All that is left are these memories, these material things that he used. That he touched. The last things that he touched.
2202825 is the mileage on Dad's blue truck this moment I sit in it on the warmest day so far this summer. It is the first and only time I have been able to get near it since he died. Wayne has come to pick up the truck and take it down to Vernal. Now this is a very good decicion I think my mom has made, to give the truck to Wayne. Wayne, is basically, my brother. In younger years he had problems with his parents, and he spent a lot of time at my house. Wayne, among very few, stuck with me through the hardest parts of my highschool years-especially when I got pregnant. He was there when babies where born, and he was there for weddings, and he was there for various family bar-b-ques and holidays. His kids called my dad "Papa Russ". And that brings us back to the truck. My dad gave Wayne opportunities to weld, and to work at Amos Rents. My dad loved Wayne. Wayne went on to school to learn to weld professionally. Chris, Amy and I obviously have stuff coming to us from "my dad." My mom slightly agonized over what to do with the truck. Personally, it killed me, even still this day, as I drive into the circle, and see it there. A memory maybe, a glimmer of a feeling, seeing that truck there, parked where it always had been- where it should be- I still think that dad is home. AND I think, no, he is not here. I have (I guess possibly morbid) thoughts regarding the fact that truck took him to the place he died. It drove him. He drove it. However it happened, someone, not my dad had to get into that truck, and bring it home that day. That day. So fast forward, to a cold night. It was the first time I had seen Wayne since the funeral. And we cried, in the front yard, steps away from that damn truck I could barely stand to look at because it was so him- still held so much of him. Wayne wanted the truck. Loved that truck as I truthfully do too....and as Wayne and I talked about it, I knew he needed that piece of my dad, possibly that biggest last piece of my dad that was unclaimed. He wanted it. So here it is today. He will take it, and I sit. To say goodbye. And I think about the day that truck was brought home about '93. I used to sit and listen to my Phantom of the Opera cassette tape in there untill my mom yelled at me to get out- The sound system was the greatest thing i'd heard yet! How many Sunday drives had we had in it? Sittin in the back, when sittin in the back wouldn't get you hauld in for breakin some seatbelt law. This truck moved us to this new house. It also hauled my inherited piece of my dad, the old Desert Dino race jeep. The Bountiful High parking sticker is still affixed to the passenger side window of the truck bed cover. I had to take a picture of the land of the free because of the brave sticker on the back window. And also of the tread lightly and fight back stickers advertising the fight to keep our public lands open to the public. I had driven this to school, and to parties. I did my fair share of unauthorized by father "wheeling" and also kissed and fought with also unauthorized by father boyfriends in this truck. Now I want to lay here on the seat in the sun and cry- but I fear my mom is watching and might think ive lost it so, instead, I just touch everypart of this truck that carried my dad around for so many years. The seat, blue and grey, the soft lined patterns of the fabric- the dirt that was unevitably my dads. Of course my mom had vaccummed the insides out but the seat still carried the pattern....The worn out buttons, the writing that used to be white on grey buttons. The rear view mirror-which wasnt the original. The original had met some fate-possibly by being ripped from the window in a fit of "Russ", but I wont say for sure. I touched the broken seat belts, and the dash guard and the stearing wheel adjustment nob where for many months there was a pair of nail clippers that hung there. I looked at the dash where there once was a bag of uneaten shelled sunflower seeds, and money-God there used to be money everywhere in there! In the ash tray....in the side door panells-along with lots of other junk. Sometimes there was a small handgun stashed somewhere that Dad would have to go retrieve before I could take the truck. I thought about this, sitting in the sun. Sitting in this truck that had been cleaned out of all things "my dad". And I go back to how many Christmas's had this truck taken us to? How many pictures was this vehicle the backdrop in? Enough I guess. Enough for me to be able to let go, and be happy that Wayne wanted it so bad, AND I wouldnt have to look at it sitting in front of this house where my dad was supposed to be coming home to today, but would never. I try not to cry too much remembering how dad used to "let me shift" the gear shifter when we were driving when I was little, or how one day we were driving to Coalville and Dad was swerving all over the road while trying to get into a bag of Lays potato chips-and we got in a fight-AND he pulled off the road in a huff saying "you drive" while getting out to stomp to the back and lay down for the rest of the drive....the day the gear shifter came completely out of the floor in my hand on a down hill-and mom and I fixed it by ourselves because we knew Dad was too stressed out to tell him what had happened...I sit here, and think about all this, wanting to touch one of the last places he touched, the steering wheel, the door handle. And I do. I make myself. Its been a year. The worn out steering wheel. O god, the day he praised me while I towed the jeep on a trailer up hill through traffic. You know, I still pass that site while on the freeway and smile.....but yes, the steering wheel. The door handle. I try not to think about what had he done that day, those last moments, but I wander there. Desperate to hold onto those last few happy moments when he was alive. And i hope, GOD, please let them have been happy. Let him please not known he was going to die. And i cry. and cry. He had come to rescue me that night I got hit head on by someone driving the wrong way on the freeway. You know, i called him that night first, before the police. I climbed out of that Datsun, with Tyler as a baby, and walked almost a mile in the snow to a 7-11 to call my dad. Dad. Not the police, although the 7-11 guy had called the police for me. He picked me up in this truck, and we towed the car, in this truck. Cry. Pieces of your dad. Good memories, and bad. But mostly good. Cry. And feel that wheel, where his hands had been that afternoon. That door handle he had to shut to go inside to die. That door handle, the worn out paint, the scratches from the keys on the keyhole. And I cry. It is okay. He is happy now. He is with me now, when I need him. He is here, pain gone. Stress gone. And it is okay. It's okay. The truck goes with Wayne today. I'm okay with that. Dad wanted that. I say goodbye. I rest my head against the warm metal, the first and last time I could bear to touch that almost living and breathing beast. I shut the door. I linger over the handle. I take a picture of the inside. I walk away realizing I had memorized the odometer reading. 2202825. i know this number has no significance to anyone but me. But this is the mileage of the vehicle that brought my dad through this life. This is the marker of the moment, the moment, I had to say goodbye. There are a few, like the date, July 16. July 22. Gas at above four dollars, the heat of almost 100 degrees. About 1 o'clock. These things all markers in this sad story for me. When I pass by one of these markers, I tend to remember. I tend to need to say outloud, how sad that it is, that still, my dad is gone. All that is left are these memories, these material things that he used. That he touched. The last things that he touched.
Amos Rents
Repost from Russisms.com original date was May27 2009,
I keep having versions of this dream where we are cleaning out the main Amos Rents building. The dream is dark. There are shadows, and people I don't know. Or I am alone. Sometimes looking for my dad. And of course he is not there. In one, he calls me on the phone. And I cry so hard. He has always been at Amos Rents. The last dream was about the old stuff Gramps used to collect and had stashed. I kept finding all these treasures, but not really what I was looking for. Not my dad. Not Gramps. After one dream it was so real, I had to go sit outside the gate. I had to be there, where they had spent so much time, and energy. Were some dreams had come true. They had worked so hard to make some dreams come true. I was always amazed at how much my dad could build. How did he know what went together. How much of that was what really was him, his dream. Just like he left us behind, he left many moving legacy- someone is still enjoying what he built in that messy garage out back. God, if the only way I can be back there with him, is in dreams, don't let them stop. I miss my dad so much. It hurts so bad. And it might get worse as July comes. But then July will go too, and I will move farther away from that day. That week. We noticed that the ground in the cemetery has grown over, the gashes and scars of the grass have grown over, the divits filled in. I wish my life was like that. My heart. When will the gashes fill in? Will I walk through my dreams looking for my dad for 50 more years or more until he is there? I was trying so hard to remember the last time I hugged him. Or that he had put a warm hand on me. I couldn't do it! It wasn't that long ago. I looked up Amos Rents online today, just to see what is still floating around out there. All that is left of Amos Rents are some old adds on websites, some menchioning in online magazine articles and an empty building and lot. All that is left of my dad are the old pictures, the things he had collected over his life, and the clothes I still can't bear to look at because I need the smell of him to last longer. Is that will be left of me? Will someone miss me as much as I miss him, need me as much as I need him? I cried so hard the day we broke down in California because as much as he wouldn't have been there to fix it, he wasn't there to just ask, am I makin the right decision? What, dad, do you think is wrong? I know he is happy, and that he misses me. I know he understands why he is gone, why he can't be here. I know one day i will understand too. I know people have to die. That life goes on. I didn't think it would hurt this much still, this far out. That i could still cry so much. I wont wish that i had one more day, or one more hour, or even one more minute because i know he is here. I just wish I could remember the last time he said I love you, that i said it back...The last time he touched me. I still wish I had said goodbye that day before I left for work. That I had looked him in the eye. That I hadn't been too busy. But I am glad I always believed in him. That I always thought he was wonderful, talented and funny. I am glad I stood up for him, and protected him from what I could. I am honored he asked me to write his resume when he needed to find a new job after Amos Rents closed. I am glad he talked to me a little, and I gave him the benefit of doubt when others couldn't. That I tried to understand why he was the way he was. There was so much, so much he wanted to do. Amos Rents was all part of that. Amos and Amos Rents are gone too. It hurts to hear a small tractor working, go figure, and the smell of oil
I keep having versions of this dream where we are cleaning out the main Amos Rents building. The dream is dark. There are shadows, and people I don't know. Or I am alone. Sometimes looking for my dad. And of course he is not there. In one, he calls me on the phone. And I cry so hard. He has always been at Amos Rents. The last dream was about the old stuff Gramps used to collect and had stashed. I kept finding all these treasures, but not really what I was looking for. Not my dad. Not Gramps. After one dream it was so real, I had to go sit outside the gate. I had to be there, where they had spent so much time, and energy. Were some dreams had come true. They had worked so hard to make some dreams come true. I was always amazed at how much my dad could build. How did he know what went together. How much of that was what really was him, his dream. Just like he left us behind, he left many moving legacy- someone is still enjoying what he built in that messy garage out back. God, if the only way I can be back there with him, is in dreams, don't let them stop. I miss my dad so much. It hurts so bad. And it might get worse as July comes. But then July will go too, and I will move farther away from that day. That week. We noticed that the ground in the cemetery has grown over, the gashes and scars of the grass have grown over, the divits filled in. I wish my life was like that. My heart. When will the gashes fill in? Will I walk through my dreams looking for my dad for 50 more years or more until he is there? I was trying so hard to remember the last time I hugged him. Or that he had put a warm hand on me. I couldn't do it! It wasn't that long ago. I looked up Amos Rents online today, just to see what is still floating around out there. All that is left of Amos Rents are some old adds on websites, some menchioning in online magazine articles and an empty building and lot. All that is left of my dad are the old pictures, the things he had collected over his life, and the clothes I still can't bear to look at because I need the smell of him to last longer. Is that will be left of me? Will someone miss me as much as I miss him, need me as much as I need him? I cried so hard the day we broke down in California because as much as he wouldn't have been there to fix it, he wasn't there to just ask, am I makin the right decision? What, dad, do you think is wrong? I know he is happy, and that he misses me. I know he understands why he is gone, why he can't be here. I know one day i will understand too. I know people have to die. That life goes on. I didn't think it would hurt this much still, this far out. That i could still cry so much. I wont wish that i had one more day, or one more hour, or even one more minute because i know he is here. I just wish I could remember the last time he said I love you, that i said it back...The last time he touched me. I still wish I had said goodbye that day before I left for work. That I had looked him in the eye. That I hadn't been too busy. But I am glad I always believed in him. That I always thought he was wonderful, talented and funny. I am glad I stood up for him, and protected him from what I could. I am honored he asked me to write his resume when he needed to find a new job after Amos Rents closed. I am glad he talked to me a little, and I gave him the benefit of doubt when others couldn't. That I tried to understand why he was the way he was. There was so much, so much he wanted to do. Amos Rents was all part of that. Amos and Amos Rents are gone too. It hurts to hear a small tractor working, go figure, and the smell of oil
Hands
Repost from Russisms.com original date May 1 2009:
I was watching the powerpoint I put together for my dad's funeral today, which I rarely do. I can't watch most of it. I seem to hurt myself crying, which is actually funny that my insides are so fragile! I was thinking about the day he died, about how it was so hard to let go of his hands. I was thinking about how much he had done with his hands. How a lifetime, 50 years of pictures showed how much one person had accomplished with his hands. How he had learned to use them as a baby, how he had held his mother, and his blankets and toys. How they helped stabilize him to sit and walk and crawl. I don't know how much it hurts my grandma, but I can imagine, to loose those hands, that boy. 50 years of someone just gone. I think my dad worked his hearts wishes out with his hands. How many tools have been held by those hands? Pencils? How much money had they exchanged? The animals he loved? Babies? I barely remember the last time he touched me. I wish I had it on video, I could know for sure, and replay it. He walked my mother and me down the isle with those hands. He carried me when I was hurt. He threw them up in the air so many times when he was frustrated or angry. Many steering wheels he had turned, and socks put on. Cans of soda, and guns. There is a letter I wrote the week he died, I put it there where his hand touches it where it lays in the coffin. He knows what it says without reading it. I believe he has always known. I never truly told him though what it says. I always meant to. I couldn't let go of his hands, the day he died. He was gone, already. Hands were still soft, and warm enough for me to think he was still asleep. Those hands that had held me so many times. I still feel like I need them to guide me. I hate not knowing what to do without him. Knowing what he would do, but I can not. I hate knowing he wont touch anything again in this life. That his last fingerprints still linger on things. That it will be years till I see him again. Till I hold those hands again.
I was watching the powerpoint I put together for my dad's funeral today, which I rarely do. I can't watch most of it. I seem to hurt myself crying, which is actually funny that my insides are so fragile! I was thinking about the day he died, about how it was so hard to let go of his hands. I was thinking about how much he had done with his hands. How a lifetime, 50 years of pictures showed how much one person had accomplished with his hands. How he had learned to use them as a baby, how he had held his mother, and his blankets and toys. How they helped stabilize him to sit and walk and crawl. I don't know how much it hurts my grandma, but I can imagine, to loose those hands, that boy. 50 years of someone just gone. I think my dad worked his hearts wishes out with his hands. How many tools have been held by those hands? Pencils? How much money had they exchanged? The animals he loved? Babies? I barely remember the last time he touched me. I wish I had it on video, I could know for sure, and replay it. He walked my mother and me down the isle with those hands. He carried me when I was hurt. He threw them up in the air so many times when he was frustrated or angry. Many steering wheels he had turned, and socks put on. Cans of soda, and guns. There is a letter I wrote the week he died, I put it there where his hand touches it where it lays in the coffin. He knows what it says without reading it. I believe he has always known. I never truly told him though what it says. I always meant to. I couldn't let go of his hands, the day he died. He was gone, already. Hands were still soft, and warm enough for me to think he was still asleep. Those hands that had held me so many times. I still feel like I need them to guide me. I hate not knowing what to do without him. Knowing what he would do, but I can not. I hate knowing he wont touch anything again in this life. That his last fingerprints still linger on things. That it will be years till I see him again. Till I hold those hands again.
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