MOTHERLODE
Motherlode: I selfishly miss him more, for myself
October 26, 2009
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Lorraine Sommerfeld
My dad died 13 years ago today, which I guess means my grief is officially a teenager.
A lot of things change in 13 years.
Grandchildren grow up. When Christopher was 4, he used to line up the dining room chairs in the living room, two by two. He would sit his grandfather in a chair, roll his oxygen tank over, then take his own place in the driver's seat and drive the bus. It was the closest Dad would get to driving with his grandson, that grandson who somehow managed to find his way into our bloodline after all those girls. That boy ... who will be 18 at the end of this week.
Loss sneaks up on you at odd moments. I was watching Ari, 15, play football the other day. With my chin tucked into my coat against the wind, and the cold, hard bleachers reminding me I should have brought a blanket, I glanced around at the peppering of grandfathers throughout the crowd, all watching their grandsons. None of them looked cold; none looked uncomfortable. I wish my son could know my father would have been at every game, pride blocking the wind from any direction.
After Dad's funeral, everyone came back to the house for food, because mourning is a hungry business. There were a lot of people and the house is not large, but platters of things appeared because, if you're lucky, a friend like Karen will designate themselves in charge of such things. As the noise level pitched higher and higher, because mourning is also a celebratory business if it's done properly, we finally noticed Ari. A few weeks past his second birthday, he was lying down the middle of the dining room table on his tummy, calmly selecting the largest strawberries from the platter and eating them. This is my memory of Ari mourning his grandpa – and Dad would have approved.
There is a small, bent blue spruce tree at the cottage, planted exactly where you would stand to enjoy the best view of the whole lake. This is where my parents reside now, and the boys introduce their friends as they head down the path. I'll never stop smiling at the initial introduction – "say hi to my Grandma and Pa" – and the looks of bewilderment that follow. I would like the tree to grow straighter, or more grandly, but in retrospect, it is exactly as it should be – an imperfect presence in a perfect spot, the best that any of us could really hope for.
I've also grown up, which my father has missed. I would have tried his patience, already in short supply, but as much as I miss my sons having him here, I selfishly miss him more for myself. I am in the midst of wonderful people, yet still I yearn to be someone's little girl. I liked being a daughter, I was good at it. And while the steps in the past 13 years have been more shaky than sure-footed, they have always been determined.
Maybe because Dad was not terribly demonstrative, the times he was have crystallized in my memory. Like a spider web anchored at intricate intervals, I have spun memories that hinge from one spot to the next, allowing me to work through the highs and lows, safe in knowing that for all its apparent fragility, my father's love was my bedrock.
Maybe not so much really changes in 13 years, after all.
I just want to hear, "You done good, kid," one more time.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels.
Reach her at www.lorraineonline.ca.
Toronto Star