And I never know when the grief is going to hit. For a while there, it was always right under everything, ready to seep out whenever an opening prevented itself. So raw. As if I had paper-thin skin and the slightest touch would cause a crack for the grief to bleed out--sometimes gush, sometimes trickle.
I used to worry about saying the wrong thing--or any thing--to those grieving because I didn't want to make them sad or cry. Which makes me laugh now because of my own experience. The sadness and the tears are inevitable like a shadow. They are just there all the time. Where there is light, there is shadow. Where there is love, there is grief.
Lately, I don't feel so fragile. Which is probably good. I had a couple of weeks where work and kids' stuff was incredibly busy. Like, every waking thought was taken. When the week ended, it all hit. It's like the grief had been waiting, and collecting interest, for me to slow down so that I could pay up. I wasn't expecting that.
And I wasn't expecting to be extra sad today, on Mother's Day. It is Father's Day I'm worried about. But today I am tenderly sad.
For some reason, my dad I and were extra close. They say that he was the one I turned to as a baby when upset. Some of my purest memories are of my dad rocking me to sleep. He usually fell asleep first and the rocking would stop and I would tap him awake and he would start rocking again. Over and over. I felt so safe, secure, sheltered, loved, adored, calm, whole in the arms of my dad.
My dad was a champion of motherhood. He valued it like almost no other person I've ever met. He's always been proud of me and I always felt his unconditional love. When I became a mother, he showed me a new respect. It kind of surprised me, actually. There was this deference he showed me when it came to mothering that gave me confidence and inspired me to do the best I can.
Dad would have called me today and told me how proud he was of me as a mother, how great my kids are, what a good job I'm doing, and told me that he loved me. We would have chatted about life, world events, he probably would have told me about the northern lights and some cool fact that I may or may not have known about them. And I probably would have started talking in depth about something and before I finished, he would have hit his limit for phone talking and said "Well, thanks so much for talking--" and I would have given him a hard time about being bored of the conversation. And he would have said sorry and if it was really important he would try to keep listening but usually, we would just end the call there with loving teasing and understanding.
Miss you Dad.
