Milestone

Six months ago I thought a father passing away was the worst day of a persons life. But what I've come to realize is, that it isn't.

In the days that followed my father's death, it's the unexpected ways that I am reminded of him that cause my tears. Military holidays, rope knots, pine scented saw dust, running saws and Cracker Barrel. There will be many more triggers, and the memories will strike sometimes like a trickle and sometimes like a tsunami.

I don't think it's bad. My heart still feels like it's free-falling when there's a question that I want to ask him and he isn't available. I am conscious of his total absence in waves. For days on end I'm keenly aware, and on other days I almost forget.

But I won't ever really forget. It will just sting a little less everyday until the emotional triggers get pulled or the unexpected memory surfaces. If I'm crying, it's not all bad either. It doesn't mean I'm depressed. It just means he still touches my heart and his love for me wasn't wasted.

Sad Ending

A long time connection breaks

Like rocks over the edge of Grand Canyon

I've chosen to let it go.

__

Tonite at sunset

I'll close doors against you

That God reinforced.

Thoughts on May 4th at Kent

There are two things etched into my brain about May 4th. The runaway girl's screaming face over the body of one victim, and the CSNY song, of which you will find neither here.

But feel free to visit my blog bud to see both.

OSU did not accept me into their interior design program. A week later, a letter from Kent State arrived.

"You've been accepted..."

In Ohio it was still on the consciousness of everyone. My youngest brother was an infant when it happened. When I came home for Christmas break in 1981, my then 12-year-old brother asked me a question that through me for a loop.

"Why are you going to a school where they are shooting people?"

"Is that what you think? That they are still shooting at people there?"

"Well, yeah."

"No. It was a day that happened over ten years ago."

I could tell by the look on his face, he didn't believe me. And he worried about me going back.

On campus, one of the guys from Verder Hall silkscreened one color t-shirts with a bull's eye on the front and back. Above the targets were the words: Kent State Student. I don't know if he sold many or got shut down.

I didn't think they were funny, and told him he was sick. But, some were determined never to forget.

Once I was leaving English class and walking around the student center for a change of pace. On the ground someone had taped the outline of a body on the ground. Everyone gave it a wide berth not wanting to walk on it. Music in the air The Doors, the Beatles, Hendricks. I felt like I was in some kind of weird time/space bubble stuck on repeat.

I wasn't there the day the four were killed, nor do I actually recall the day with any clarity. I have never seen the National Guard in formation on a campus. But I did feel a deep sadness for what had taken place there. I went to see the memorial plaque that was in the ground and the one at the back of the parking lot beside Prentice Hall. (Pictured above) My hall, not pictured here, was Verder, to the left of Prentice while looking at this photo.

I remember feeling so disappointd that the memorial for them was so small. I've heard in recent years it's been expanded. I haven't been back to see it, or the campus or Kent since I left. And the way things are going, it'll stay that way.

The Cloud of My Thoughts

Over the years, I've had dreams in which my father had passed away. I woke up exhausted, inconsolable and heart broken until I realized they were just terrible dreams. They prompted me to develop and enjoy a solid, wonderful relationship with him, and accept him unconditionally.

Based on events from those dreams, I expected to experience his actual death similarly. Since it hasn't happened that way, I've begun to think something is wrong. Maybe I'm deeply in denial. Maybe the belief that he's somewhere around here, just out of sight blocks my "real" grief.

I want to call and tell him about this, but the thought short circuits when I realize, I would be talking about him. I still feel emotionally agog.

Aside from the mindless rituals of the day, I'm ashamed to say, not much is getting done around here.

I don't want to eat so much as drink, and drinking isn't a wise option. I don't need help feeling numb, or to be immobilized. I find myself staring like a catatonic too much of the time as it is.

How can someone who no longer occupies physical space on this earth occupy so much of my mind? I desperately want to disengage, go on a road trip, stare out some fog shrouded windows, soak in a hot tub, toast my skin on some sunny beach and listen to the sea.

None of that would really help. Wherever I go, I'm still within the cloud of my thoughts .

What I'd really like more than anything: to wake up in the morning and have this not be real just one more time.

Popping the Zeppelin

Today's the day. I'd really rather not go, if it could be avoided, but this day hangs there like a zeppelin on the horizon. The other kids have already done this and had each other to get through it.This is my first visit to the house with out my dad being there. I wondered if I should have gone before now, maybe reality would have sunk in sooner. Maybe for the past month it would have been more real. But I didn't. Too many overwhelming things happened at once.

I offered to visit her the weekend after the funeral, but my stepmother had already made plans with her friend. After that the weeks slipped by and opportunity didn't come up again until this weekend.

St. Anne's , the Catholic church Dad attended, is performing a service in his memory. I have nothing against Catholics. I used to be one. I was raised one. But having moved on to a different kind of faith, I haven't been in their church for years. My step mother's devotion to her late husband is about the only reason that could get me in the door. And this service will come at the end of a day of God-knows-what.

They say being widowed suddenly does strange things to a woman. Some want to throw away everything, and some won't move one single thing. I have no idea where my step mom falls. Even if she's ready to begin parting with some of his belongings, am I ready to take them? Am I ready for the emotional fall-out of not borrowing them but inheriting them?