Smarties

With an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye, my dad had a playful imagination.  For instance, every time he came to visit us, he would have his coat pocket stocked with small boxes of Smarties, and he would hurry out of the car and attach them to the branches on the tree in our front yard before we would answer the door.  My little girl would toddle out onto the ramp just as he would pretend to pick and hand them to her, his beloved "Sweet Pea." He had her convinced that we actually had a magical Smartie-growing tree right outside our door and keeping up the narrative long after she knew better was important to him.    He believed in adding a pinch of of beauty and magic to every day.

What would I give to feel a bit of that beauty and magic right now.  Three years ago today, my mom called to say that my dad had been hospitalized but was okay.  An hour and a half drive away from them, I hesitated before saying we were on our way.  Dad had been in and out of the hospital with heart issues a few times lately and always ended up at home, happy and healthy.  This was our last weekend together before my husband Darrell left home to start his graduate degree; we were busy packing and organizing things for his trip  However, it was Dad's birthday.  "We are on our way," I said, and then thought to myself, "How many more birthdays will I get with him after all?"

As it turns out, just one.

Dad went in to the hospital three years ago today but died one week later.  It was a long week and three years is a long time.  One would expect that it would not hurt anymore, that I should be able to compartmentalize this day, this week, and get on with daily life, but I can't.  At least not today.  The truth is, not having him around has not become easier, like everyone said it would.  Time has not eased anything.  All that time has done has given me the opportunity to find ways to live with the gap that his absence has left.  Sometimes I live with the gap well.  I am able to pass on the stories of his wisdom and his eccentricities to my children with laughter and joy in my voice. With a smile on my face, I can buy some garlicky olives or stinky blue cheese for Darrell, knowing how much he and Dad would love sharing them.  But sometimes I don't live with the gap well.   I still can't bring myself to read the last Orson Scott Card novel in the Bean series, knowing how much he would have loved that book.  I still long to hear his voice and feel his whiskered cheek against mine.  I still cry over things that don't make a lot of sense.

Then again.  This morning I gave my daughter a little box of Smarties for her lunch.  I had not planned to mark Dad's birthday with Smarties, it was more like a coincidence than anything when I happened to find them in the bottom of my purse.  With an unmistakeable twinkle in her eye, she asked me if they came from the magical Smartie-growing tree outside our front door, and although I paused for a long, long moment, I smiled and answered, "Of course they did, Sweet Pea.  Of course." 

Wishing you beauty, and a magical box of Smarties too,
hk