The past few weeks have been odd. I’ve been moving along, trying to get through each day without letting too many things fall through the cracks. I’ve tossed a lot of balls up in the air, and damn near all of them have stayed aloft. Yet at some point on an almost daily basis I have a sense of having forgotten something. I quickly run through the things I was supposed to do –
Send emails to x, y and z
Take the meat out of the freezer
Return calls to the guy from that place
Replace the upstairs tp roll
Follow up on more x, y and z
Take diapers to the sitter
Drop the things off with the guy
And on and on. I often remember things I had forgotten to do, but I never find the relief from the thinking I’ve forgotten something. Tonight the girls and I were walking downtown to meet Sean. My mom had called just before we left, and before that my friend Deb had called. I crossed the street in front of our house and guided the bright, red double stroller over the crumbling curb and onto an unusually high side walk.
“Great for superball races in the rain.”
I haven’t raced a superball in at least 25 years, but there it was, a little voice letting me know what was captive alongside that sidewalk, just waiting for the right rain and me.
We kept walking, passing heady clouds of lilac perfume and gazing at puffy white clouds passing overhead like a parade. At the next block I heard a squaek, it was the squeak of a backyard swingset. I could just imagine the feel of the seat, pinching at the tender skin just beneath the cuffs of my shorts, the metal in my hands leaving a print and the smell kids and summer, and good old fashioned dirt.
“Mama, are you hear it?! Das da mu-swik truck! He’s singin’ Twinkle Twinkle.”
“That’s right honey.”
“We hafta find it, the mu-swik truck. Ok? Ok, mom? We find him now.”
“We can sure try.”
I smiled at her euphoria at the mere thought of the truck. Such passion. And so infectious. I should-
And then it hit me. The forgetting. the struggling to remember. The passion.
Grandpa is gone.
I’ve wanted to call him. I’ve wanted to share with him the wonder in the dawn of a new spring.
I want to tell him that teaching Briar about leaves and buds, and growing and flowers has taught me to see things in a new way. I want to tell him how I am living this spring, devouring each experience, inhabiting each moment. I want to tell him how we touch the buds, kiss them and say, “Hey buds, how are you doing? You gonna grow so big. If you get hurt we’ll give you some be ok. Are you hungry?” He would love hearing what a mimic Avery is, how she kisses me with her whole being.
I want so much to be able to make him smile, hear that laugh. I want to pick up the phone and find the number that patches me through to the time when he wasn’t gone.