The shuffling of feet, sets off an avalanche of emotions inside me.
It is just Cheese sliding across our carpets, perhaps he has on imaginary cross country skis. But the sound cotains memories. My Pop had MS and the first 29 years of my life are filled with that sound, the sound of his shuffling feet. A sound that in and off itself I would not enjoy, but because the sound is him, it means so much to me. It is like music, a song that our life together danced to. To hear the tune played by the one who created it in my life, is something I long for. Though all the memories are good, the sound can't but make me sad, for never again will I hear it, and turn and look, and he will be standing there.
The shuffling of feet sets off an avalanche of emotions inside me.
Yesterday was the anniversary of his death. He was born July 14th 1918, he died just before his 81st Birthday. We always celebrated his birthday on the weekend we celebrated the 4th of July, because he always had a big family reunion then, plus he was always off fishing in Canada, in a great stinky camper full of men, during his b-day. So I think of his birthday and his death, as part of the 4th of July. I always think of him as I watch the fireworks, I used to watch them from his yard, and the year that he died, the hospital called saying he might die tonight, but I waited to watch the fireworks before I went in, I needed his passing to be entwined with them. I was worried he wouldn't wait for me, but he did, he died on the 6th, two days later, early in the morning when none of us were there, but we had already said our goodbyes. He had looked around at us, at all our faces, and smiled and said how lucky he was to have us, to have such a family.
I didn't think of him this year as I watched the fireworks, because we didn't go to see them, perhaps that is why I heard the shuffling of feet this morning, why I realized I knew the date of his death, but couldn't remember the one of his birth, and had to go through the storage containers in the basement till I found his memory book, which now lays open next to me on the bed. It was time for me to remember and smile and say, how lucky I am, to have had such a family.
2 comments:
Think of William Wordsworth's verse:
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
We are so much richer for having known and loved these people in our lives. Your father lives in you, and in your son also. So when you hear him shuffling his feet, turn your pain into happiness and think of this a sweet reminder of a person who was, of a person who is...
Thanks for the words, Wordworth's and your own.
Pretty both, sentiments true.
I shall try.
by the bye,
my pop, refers to my grandfather, but he felt like a dad, I spent weekends at his home growing up, and lived with my Nana and Pop, while in my twenties.
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