A sneak peak at the memoir in progress ...
Two hours after my return from Home Depot, the hustle-bustle suddenly slowed to a stop. Carol, Haley and I found ourselves standing in the middle of the room, looking around for any unfinished tasks.
"Well," Haley said with a forced but polite smile. "I guess that's it."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, scanning her new home. "I can get the rest myself."
"Are you sure?" I asked again.
"There's not much left to do."
As the three of us walked downstairs, my eyes began to sting, my breathing grew shallow, my throat tightened. There were two events I'd dreaded since the birth of my daughter: walking her down the aisle, into another man's arms and life, and dropping her off for the first year of college.
The time! What had happened to all that time? Granted, those first few years in diapers seemed to drag on forever, but then a few deep breaths and, suddenly, there was pre-school, and then, a few breaths later, junior high – and from that point on our lives together zipped by with the speed of a bobsled. It got away from me. I missed the finish. Was there even a finish line? Who won?
I'd practiced this moment so many times in my mind over the past year. It was right at this point when I was supposed to gently cup my daughter's face in my hands, smiling serenely, and tell her that I wasn't worried about her in the least, so sound were her wisdom and confidence and abilities. And that if I should die that afternoon I would do so peacefully because I knew she'd be just fine without me. And then, I'd share the karmic wisdom my mother had passed on to me at this very same moment in my life nearly a quarter-century ago: From this point on, the good things in life will come from you, not to you.
The three of us stopped in the parking lot and faced each other. "Oh, Haley," I said, unable to finish a sentence. "Oh, Haley."
I placed one arm over her shoulder and the other over my wife's, and I pulled them into a tight huddle, our heads lowered as if in prayer, scalp touching scalp.
"Oh, Haley," I said.
I began to sob, loudly enough that I could feel eyes upon us. We continued standing there, hunched together, long enough that we began to collectively sway back and forth like an empty rocking chair in the wind.
Finally, I felt Haley's hand pat my back: a request for release. I lifted my head, a long string of snot hanging from my nose.
"I have to go – it hurts too much," I said. I love you, sweetheart. I love you so, so much. I'll never forget the time we had together."
"Dad, I'm not leaving forever."
"It's never gonna be the same, sweetie."
I retreated to the rental car as Carol lingered to talk with Haley. Despite the humid, hot day, I quickly rolled up the windows. I didn't care that people had seen me cry, but what I needed now was to wail in pain, and I wanted no one, not even Carol, to hear me. I climbed into the back seat, curled up on my side, and wailed as I hadn't wailed for decades.
I'd never felt such pain. No one close to me had ever died. Something here, now, had just died.
