Dealing with it (kind of)

There haven't been many old men in my life. My maternal grandfather died when I was 10. My father was estranged from my paternal grandfather, so I have only ever seen two brief glimpses of the man, once when I was seven and once when I was in my early twenties.

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When we do things with my husband's family, I always try and finagle a seat by Grandpa. He's 90, cross-eyed, and hilarious. The results of my machinations are always a surprise. Sometimes Grandpa sits back and says nothing. Sometimes he launches into stories about how the orders got mixed up when he was in Europe during World War II and he got to Normandy about a week too late for what he calls "the death trap." Sometimes he talks nonstop about how awful the Cubs are this year. Sometimes he just watches his great-grandchildren, occasionally reaching out to touch them, just brief caresses on their hair or cheek, seemingly unsure of what to make of them, these adorable creatures who sprang from the loins of his offsprings' offsprings' offsprings.

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This weekend was the first time in my entire life I was aware of Father's Day commercials and felt them sharply, keenly, as if they were directed at me. When I got back into Minneapolis Sunday night, I found the Father's Day card I had picked out for my father, weeks ago, a card designed just for him, sitting on the kitchen table. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the recycling.

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Last week, going through some papers near my father's recliner, the very recliner where my mother found him dead, I found an unopened envelope addressed to my father in my handwriting. It was a birthday card, sent to him this past March. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the trash.

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I mourned for the man who used to be my father - the one who patiently taught me to tie my shoes, who listened to me count to 100 approximately a million times on road trips, who was the strongest, tallest, most handsome man I ever knew - I mourned him years ago in therapy.

Last week, I mourned for my mother and my sister. They are stuck with a mess, a mess I fled, a mess that is clean upable, but a mess that sends spears of pain through my stomach whenever I think of it. I'm sorry for them that I had to leave, sorry for them that I couldn't be stronger any longer, and sorry for them that there aren't enough words in the world to let them know that I am behind them all the way.