Laughs and claps her hands

I wish I could show you the picture.  I'm sitting on my father's lap.  My curly hair's in what my mother always called puppy-dog ears, a ponytail on each side of my head.  My hands are in motion, and you can see that my fingernails are painted, but that most of the polish has chipped off.  I'm looking at something behind the photographer, and obviously it delights me; my open-mouthed grin conveys nothing less than ecstasy. 

My father's smiling, too, but not with my slack-jawed juvenile awe.  It's a quieter joy on his face.  He's not smiling at what I see.  He's looking instead at me.

The photo ran in the newspaper, pegged to the circus performance we'd attended.  The caption begins, "Julie ___________, age 2, laughs and claps her hands..."

I don't have a copy of the picture.  Still, it's sharp and clear in my mind, though the last time I saw it was years ago.  The clipping was yellowed and the brittle edges of the paper were flaking; I assume it's degraded since then.  So far as I know my mother has it, since I can't imagine she threw it away when she moved out of the house she shared with my dad.  If I asked, I know she'd send it, but I'm happy, just now, not to have it.

I think it would hurt to see it.  Well, today I know it would. 

...

Two years ago today my dad died.  The loss isn't any more painful today just because of the date; it's the whole month of August that gets me.  It's the perfect weather that does it, and the motorcycles that go with it.  Last weekend hundreds of them roared through downtown as we left the farmer's market, a half-hour procession, and I thought I would be sick.  Dizzy, a metallic taste in my mouth, a prickle of sweat, the need to pant to get enough air, an urge to run.  (To where?  The roads are blocked.)  A panic I feel on gorgeous days when a Harley rumbles by.

It was almost as bad two weeks ago when we drove through New York to a wedding.  Our route was the same my dad took that day, a forested curve through the Adirondacks, a beautiful road for a hellish ride.  Schroon Lake, where the accident happened.  Albany, where he died.  As I drove I kept shaking my head  like a disoriented animal, trying to dislodge the idea that no one else on that long stretch of road knew that something had ended there.

I am better, of course, than I was.  Time's an industrious bastard.  The intensity of the grief has diminished, and if I'm still thinking of him every single day, it's not every single minute.  It's progress, and while most of the time I'm glad for it, sometimes it's sad as hell.  The less it hurts, the longer it's been, and the poorer I am for not having him.

...

That newspaper picture, decades old, is in my thoughts today because on this anniversary we went to the circus.  I was just the mess I'd suspected I'd be.  I started crying as soon as the troupers skipped into the ring and didn't stop until we left the tent.  I watched Charlie, saw the same expressions cross his face that my father saw on mine.  I watched Paul hold Ben on his lap while Ben laughed and clapped his hands — the tentative pat-pat-pat of a brand-new skill — steadying a child with his body just as Dad did in the picture.  I watched these handsome, healthy children, and I reflected that for them, the worst, whatever it will be, is probably years down the pike.  And if I'd had the power to watch myself, I'd have seen what was in my dad's heart and on his face the moment that picture was taken.  How sad that all is, and how wondrous.

Posted by Julie at 08:48:15 PM in I've learned a lot...but I'm not sure it's worth it.

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Laughs and claps her hands

I wish I could show you the picture.  I'm sitting on my father's lap.  My curly hair's in what my mother always called puppy-dog ears, a ponytail on each side of my head.  My hands are in motion, and you can see that my fingernails are painted, but that most of the polish has chipped off.  I'm looking at something behind the photographer, and obviously it delights me; my open-mouthed grin conveys nothing less than ecstasy. 

My father's smiling, too, but not with my slack-jawed juvenile awe.  It's a quieter joy on his face.  He's not smiling at what I see.  He's looking instead at me.

The photo ran in the newspaper, pegged to the circus performance we'd attended.  The caption begins, "Julie ___________, age 2, laughs and claps her hands..."

I don't have a copy of the picture.  Still, it's sharp and clear in my mind, though the last time I saw it was years ago.  The clipping was yellowed and the brittle edges of the paper were flaking; I assume it's degraded since then.  So far as I know my mother has it, since I can't imagine she threw it away when she moved out of the house she shared with my dad.  If I asked, I know she'd send it, but I'm happy, just now, not to have it.

I think it would hurt to see it.  Well, today I know it would. 

...

Two years ago today my dad died.  The loss isn't any more painful today just because of the date; it's the whole month of August that gets me.  It's the perfect weather that does it, and the motorcycles that go with it.  Last weekend hundreds of them roared through downtown as we left the farmer's market, a half-hour procession, and I thought I would be sick.  Dizzy, a metallic taste in my mouth, a prickle of sweat, the need to pant to get enough air, an urge to run.  (To where?  The roads are blocked.)  A panic I feel on gorgeous days when a Harley rumbles by.

It was almost as bad two weeks ago when we drove through New York to a wedding.  Our route was the same my dad took that day, a forested curve through the Adirondacks, a beautiful road for a hellish ride.  Schroon Lake, where the accident happened.  Albany, where he died.  As I drove I kept shaking my head  like a disoriented animal, trying to dislodge the idea that no one else on that long stretch of road knew that something had ended there.

I am better, of course, than I was.  Time's an industrious bastard.  The intensity of the grief has diminished, and if I'm still thinking of him every single day, it's not every single minute.  It's progress, and while most of the time I'm glad for it, sometimes it's sad as hell.  The less it hurts, the longer it's been, and the poorer I am for not having him.

...

That newspaper picture, decades old, is in my thoughts today because on this anniversary we went to the circus.  I was just the mess I'd suspected I'd be.  I started crying as soon as the troupers skipped into the ring and didn't stop until we left the tent.  I watched Charlie, saw the same expressions cross his face that my father saw on mine.  I watched Paul hold Ben on his lap while Ben laughed and clapped his hands — the tentative pat-pat-pat of a brand-new skill — steadying a child with his body just as Dad did in the picture.  I watched these handsome, healthy children, and I reflected that for them, the worst, whatever it will be, is probably years down the pike.  And if I'd had the power to watch myself, I'd have seen what was in my dad's heart and on his face the moment that picture was taken.  How sad that all is, and how wondrous.