I am a (very, very) far from perfect individual, but Id like to think that most days since March 26th Ive done a relatively okay-ish job of staying positive & strong. Mostly for the kiddos, who have amazed and inspired me with how incredibly well they have seemed to process what happened on that day, right in front of their own little eyes, and adapt to a new normal in the aftermath. I have tried to present to them hope, silver linings and the ability to find the good no matter what. I have reminded them to count blessings instead of adversities and have helped them to make many pitchers of ice cold lemonade with the lemons life has dealt us this year. Ive mostly smiled through the tears whenever Gav spies a man with a cane and asks Momma, do you think Grampy still uses his cane in heaven? or whenever Ava mentions, out of the blue, that she wishes Grampy could watch her play soccer here instead of from up in the sky. I have tried to fill their aching little hearts with heaping servings of gratitude for all the time they were so lucky to share with their Grampy, and to remind them vocally and religiously how much he adored them. (And how proud he still is of them, albeit from a few gazillion light years away.). I have tried so hard to let them know that every rainbow in the sky is his gift to them and that he is here with us, around us, loving us.... always. But then like a two-by-four to the face, a rare moment will happen that just catches me off guard; a moment that renders me incapable of smiling through the heartache or presenting a unified and strong front. A moment that leaves me gasping for air and the right words to say. (And for what feels like an eternity, I can find neither.) Tonight was one of those moments. As I cleaned up the kitchen, Gav sat on the couch in his usual spot watching a cartoon before bed. Suddenly, his little voice in the distance-- Momma, do people from heaven EVER get to take a vacation and come back down here to see us? Without looking at him, and sort of caught up in my own thoughts at that moment, I continued with the dishes and responded No honey, once people go to heaven they stay there. Oh. There was a heavy sadness and raw disappointment in that oh that begged me to look over at him. So I did. There he sat, in his Star Wars jammies on the couch, holding a picture of Grampy in his little lap. No attention was being paid to his favorite show on tv. He was completely fixated on that 4 by 6 inch moment encapsulated in a wooden frame. He ran over the glass with his fingertips at least ten times. Immediately I snuggled up next to him and looked at the picture too. Do you miss him, buddy? I asked quietly. Yeah, I do, he said. And it really really stinks that people in heaven dont get vacations to come back here sometimes. I could tell he was about to cry. He is a very sensitive little boy and the quivering of his bottom lip is always a dead giveaway that tears are imminent. Tears spilled down my cheeks and for the first time in a long time, I dismissed the urge to cover them up with a smile. Yeah, bud, I agreed, and kissed the sandy blonde hair on top of his head about million times. It really does stink. A lot. We stared at that picture together without saying a word for another five minutes. I cried. He cried. Quietly. It just really stinks momma, were his last words before we put the picture back up on the shelf where it lives. We miss you Grampy. Still finding the good most days, but sometimes the reality of you gone just plain really stinks.
Posted on: Mon, 22 Sep 2014 02:16:39 +0000
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