right now

 

I know exactly in my camera roll where our lives changed forever.  It's laid out right there along with all of the memories. I look at those photos now, the before and the after, and I realize how blissfully we lived, how we had no idea that our lives were destined for heartbreak, that all the plans and dreams we had would forever be changed.  

Today I chose only to scroll through the photos of before.  I wanted to remember him without cancer.  I wanted to see him in his element, with his children, doing what he loved.

If you knew this man you knew he was the kind of guy who made everyone feel at home, everywhere, no matter who you were (even if you were an ass).  You knew there was something soft and easy about him that made you feel comfortable, that made you want more of him.  You knew he would always make time for you, that he'd listen more than he would talk, that he'd ask questions that meant he got you.  You knew that his laugh came easy, that he craved learning, that he would bend over backwards to help you out.  I loved walking in a room with him and watching people light up, "Oh, Andy is here".  He was that good.  Nothing but good.

Sometime I wonder if our girls remember that about him.  They were 5 and 8 when he was diagnosed and barely 9 and 11 when he died.  Is that enough time to lay down the influence that was the magic and goodness of your dad? Can they even begin to understand how much he was loved?

Lately I've been stumbling around trying to be everything.  I try to be more than one parent, I try to be the ease and comfort that he was, I try to provide for them the experiences we planned together.  It's not really working because the truth is I'm only half.  Half of the team that we were.  And like he did for so many, he held me up when life was hard.  He told me I was a good parent even when I got to the end of my rope with a 2 or 4 or 6 year old and lost my shit.  He always stepped up and did the extra something so I could take a walk, or call a friend or nap.  He rallied behind me when I thought my writing was shit, or wasn't sure about a move I made at work, or needed a little push to try something new.  He had so much confidence in me.  He made feeling good about myself easy.  And I got to live with that Every Day. 

Last week I wrote an imaginary letter (that's a letter I don't intend to send) to my therapist.  Ok, it wasn't a letter is was a long list of the things that feel really hard and overwhelming in my life.  I was actually shocked by the length when I got to the end.  It gave me pause.  Holy shit girl, you got a lot going on.  I felt a little softness for myself.  I felt him reach out and quietly put an arm around me.  His comfort that I know so well, that reaches me now from somewhere in the past.  The comfort that makes my heart ache, but still is.  He didn't want this for us, he wanted to stay on the team.  He was always the best player.

Where am I going with this?  I don't know, maybe just this realization that I haven't risen from the ashes.  That grief is a thing you wear around like skin.  That sometimes you hardly notice and other times it's crawling and raw and the most uncomfortable thing ever.  

That you never move on from grief, that you just keep moving through.