My sister returns from her trip this Saturday. I'll be moving in with Mom and Dad for the rest of my stay, with the intent of keeping my dad safe from COVID and allowing my sister and her husband to take it easy during their quarantine. This week is dedicated to finishing up all the things that need to get done before she gets back (why yes, I have been putting off taking the glass to the recycling center!) and then making sure Dad's in a good place before I leave.
I have many friends who have lost a parent already. Even Robinson's lost his mother to cancer about 10 years ago. It's hard, they all say. You miss this person. You feel their loss keenly. You're unable to ask them a question about a random, fuzzy memory. Their voice becomes a faint echo. You wish you'd taken just a bit more of an interest in their life before they disappeared from it forever.
I'm grappling with all of these feelings and fears right now. What if my dad doesn't make it through this? What if I finally have to face the reality that my parents are not eternal beings? What if I have a question about their life that cannot be answered? What will I do about it?
I left my parents' house tonight as I've done the last few nights. A peck on Dad's forehead. A reassurance I'll be by at such and such time tomorrow. A reminder of the activities I'll do before I come over. Though I've got a lot on my list for Tuesday and will most likely not be able to drop by as I have been, Dad casually dropped in, "Well, if you do have time, give me two hours notice."
The fragility of life swings both ways. Does Dad regret the way he raised me? Will he leave without saying words that need to be said? How does he feel about taking the bad and leaving only the good?
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