Boxes

I've been unpacking boxes at the new house, beginning my new life. Last night I came across things that transported me back to the time when my children were itty-bitties.

There where head shots of when they modeled, a baggy of one of my boys hair from when I cut his pony tail (the hair tie still holds it together), I'm thinking it's Cole's hair, Michael's tap shoes, and his little slippers, the news paper from the day my oldest daughter was born, and a newspaper article of me when I was two. My glasses fogged as my eyes filled with memory packed tears.

Today, just now, I unpacked another box. The power that overtook me was more than I could handle at the moment. After I regained composure, or that of which I could muster, I was able to read important words written to me from my father on July 24, 2002.

"What if there were no tomorrow. Am I looking at the scenery with all the colors and contrast, or am I looking at the bumper in front of me and thinking, "What a jerk?" Do I wake up thinking of all the things I have to do today, or do I say, "what a nice blue sky," and after some coffee I will decide what I can do to make things right.

Wow never noticed the flowers on that hill, glad I'm here to see it. We are what we are, where we are, and nothing more.

Help if you can, back away if you can't. Worry is not a part of my vocabulary. Treasure the smile of a little one and dismiss the whine. I hope I have the time to appreciate what I've dismissed in the past.

Take it easy and enjoy the present. Teri I love you. Do what you can, dismiss what you can't. Enjoy the present. Anticipate the future. But live for today.

Dad"

Those words were written when he was 64, five years before he died. How very appropriate they are for me today, at this moment, during this day.

Words of love, and advice, from my Dad are with me. I can touch them, I can read them. They are tangible, not a mere memory. It was the first time my father wrote the words, "Teri I love you." He never said those words to me while he was sober until after my mother had been killed.

My Daddy is touching me, walking with me, advising me, from the world beyond. What a treasure, what an honor, he chose to write his thoughts for me. My breathing is labored, my nose dripping, my make-up smeared. My daddy will never leave me, neither shall his words, his advice, or his love.

I also found the little leaflets, that are handed out at funeral services, for my Mother, and for my Father. The front of my Mother's pictures the flowers she loved. My Father's pictures the planes he loved, and flew. My brother wrote the words inside my Father's, in my Mother's I'm not sure.

Moving is difficult, making a new life is a challenge, and so very scary, but the words of my Father mean more to me today than I think they ever did. Did I mention my Father never wrote me anything before? I'll keep my Dad's words close, I'll remember them, and I'll hold close to my heart the message he was conveying to me that very special day, when I was on his mind.

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Don't Say Tomorrow

It was an urge, a heavy tugging in my spirit, that caused me to pick up the phone today and make a call I had been meaning to make, but with the rockiness of my road of late, I kept telling myself, "tomorrow."

As I held the gold iPhone in my hand, memories, wonderful memories, played in the theater of my mind. Remembrances of a meeting, too long in the making, made me laugh, cry, rejoice, and thank my Creator for His graciousness in allowing me to meet my aunt Joan. They made me smile with gratitude and appreciation. 

My father's mother had five children, three girls, and two boys. The girls she dropped on the doorstep of their father, my uncle was left with my great grand parents, and my father, well, my father's fate was much worse. She kept him.

My dad grew up basically on his own, in Catholic boarding school in New Orleans, and kept, much of the time, from his family.

One example of how that woman "cared" for the child that was to become my father, was horrific. What she revealed deepened my understanding as to why my father was a very hands off parent, for the most part.

When she went to work my father was left in a play pen. A neighbor from downstairs would come up every four hours to change his diaper and give him a bottle. It's scene I can't bear to imagine, and I attempt to bury it in a section deep within my soul from which it cannot easily emerge.

My dad's four siblings were only flashes of memories, here and there, for him. As he spoke of the sadness he felt my heart was crushed for the broken man that raised my brothers and me.

I met his sister, Joan, several time as a child, but came to know her, to bond with her, as an adult when my Dad and I took off on a road trip to see her.

She was crying when we met that hot August day in South Carolina, with tears of joy. She was beautiful, kind, smart, funny as heck, and broken as well by the tearing of her family.

I watched my Dad's eyes as they welled with tears when his older sister spoke, as she told us story after story. A bond formed that day, walls were removed, and the longing of the hearts of siblings to be together melted.

I pressed the icon on my phone for my Aunt Joan. As expected, she didn't answer. I've changed my phone number, and had not yet given it to her. Minutes later I received a call. It wasn't my aunt, but my cousin, her son.

I instantly began to cry, not a tear here and there, but a convulsive, overwhelming cry. I knew the words he would speak would not be words I wanted to hear. Through my tears I begged him, pleaded with him, to tell my Aunt, when she is lucid, of my undying love for her, and the joy our relationship had brought into my life

My Aunt, now 80, is incredibly sick and has been hospitalized. With respect for her privacy, I won't write of the afflictions she faces. Reality is reality. I know from our conversations, she has wanted for years to be with my uncle rejoicing beside him in the Heavens.

As I type this my phone is at my side. I'm waiting for my cousin, that I've only seen once, to text, or call, me with an update. The longer I wait, the more heavy my heart becomes.

But with the sadness I feel, there is also a wonderful feeling of excitement growing within my heart. It's a feeling of being able to finally connect with my cousin, one I was never allowed to meet.

With my eyes constantly watching my phone, and my mind wandering, I can't come up with a way to end this post except to say, "Make that call." Don't allow time to steal what you could have had all along.


With much love,

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