Let me see if I can get this out right. It feels like spinning. Spiraling, maybe. It makes my heart press against the wrong side of my chest. Panic. That part is over, but I keep forgetting. And that's not the worst part. It's the remembering that knocks me over.
There' no more carpet, just hardwood floors. Which are nice. But. Is it really over? Is it really over? No because I didn't pay close enough attention. To the way it felt, even though I still feel it and my eyes well up, I remember so well.
It was us. Me, and him, and him, and her, and her. And him and her. And down the road were the rest of us, and that's not the point. We were all there. We aren't all here.
It's too much. If I let it settle in, I start to crumble. We get to go back, though. Right? Do we get to go back? I want to go home. And be with you guys. I just want to tell you that I miss you. And I cry still. It was so good.
Maybe if I keep my eyes shut tight and ask to have it back. And mean it really hard. The we can be there. Oh gosh, but we can't, so i keep with the panic.
Until I walk into Grama's house. And it smells the same. And we cook. And it tastes the same. And we sit. And her hands are cool, and soft. And kind. The same.
And I feel better.
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so good
1 comment:
melbee i read your piece on "home" tonight. i felt scared, sad and happy, it really was too good. i felt the same as when i look at that picture of papa standing in the living room with grandma. his only shirt for 5 yrs, his big shorts, and duck feet. i miss him. can't see him anymore, can't hear him complain or yell out, and can't hear him either. wish i could again. thanks for making me feel real good mel. your writing is a gift. love you, dad.
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