His Favorite Color Was Red

My father died this summer. I don't think I'll ever be able to stand outside on a hot, humid day again without remembering the first moments of my grief. Smoking a cigarette, walking in circles in the grass, just trying to get it together enough to drive home.

He had been sick for a long time, kidney failure, heart attacks, diabetes, liver problems from his medication an occasional seizure thrown in just for fun and scariest of all, a stroke. He started getting sick when I was in high school; we actually celebrated my 16th birthday in his hospital room, so we had been living with the reality of his illness for almost 20 years.

You think that you're prepared for something like this. We all know it would happen, and as more time passed we knew that it might happen soon. But we never really believed it would happen. When he went into the hospital for the last time, in mid-August we all assumed he'd be back home soon, maybe on dialysis, but home.

On August 29th, I stood in the ICU, where I had visited so many times, and watched my mother let him go. They had been trying to revive him for at least 30 minutes, while we drove to the hospital, and when we arrived she told them to stop, that they had done all that could be expected. She thanked them, and I cannot imagine the strength that must have taken, to thank the people who couldn't bring him back and to be the one to make the decision that it was time to stop trying.

I miss him so much, and whenever I see a photo of him it hits me again. The thought that I'll never hug him, never feel the scratchiness of his stubble as he kisses my cheek or hear his laugh, it's like a punch to the gut that takes my breath away.

We talk about him every day. I'm determined that Alex will know how much his Papaw loved him and hopeful that he will remember how much he loved his Papaw in return.

This is what I remember:

flying through the air as a child, as he swung me in his arms, knowing that he would never drop me

floating in the ocean with his hands under my back, learning to swim

sitting on his shoulders in that same warm water as a storm rolled in, feeling the waves crash over us, but never being afraid because his strength would keep us safe

sitting in our kitchen, watching him cut up the steak for the stroganoff my mother would be making for dinner

learning to shoot - his large, calloused hands wrapped around my small ones

climbing on his tow truck in the summer, "helping" him wash it, but mostly just getting squirted with the hose

Christmas mornings where the joy in his eyes outshone anything my brother and I were feeling, just so happy to see his kids happy

walking down the aisle towards my soon-to-be husband, my hand on his arm, it felt like floating

the first time he held my son, so tiny, and the gentle love I could see as he cradled Alex in his arms

the way he loved my mother and how they showed me, together, that marriage isn't always easy but it's so worth the work

a million more small moments - the wonderful, which I will hold on to as tightly as I can, and the fights and friction that come from strong, conflicting personalities living in the same house, which I will let go of

I will miss him for the rest of my life.

Love you, Daddy.

Not Mine Anymore

My family recently went on vacation. We spent a lovely time in Walt Disney World, showing Alex all the things that we love about the place: the rides, the shows, the fireworks, the food (OMG, the food. Don't roll your eyes, Disney has tons of gourmet restaurants.) We love the place so much that we spend at least 2 weeks there every year and more if we can swing it.

Usually we come home with tons of pictures (and we did), lots of T-shirts (less this time due to the crappy economy), a new Christmas ornament (got that, and it's adorable) and a boatload of stuff for my scrapbooking. And we leave with a sense of sadness and satisfaction intermingled; bittersweet and worn out.

This time, however, was different. We were eager to leave, the bittersweet skewing sharply to the bitter near the end of our trip when my car was stolen. We parked it one night, right outside our room, carried an exhausted, sleeping Alex inside and went to bed. The next morning we packed up the diaper bag, got everyone dressed and stepped into what felt like unreality. We looked where the car was parked, and then we looked again. I asked Jym to be sure that I hadn't forgotten and then we both looked stupidly around the parking lot, as though the Jeep might have gotten bored and gone for a drink in the middle of the night, returning to a different space in its confusion.

The cops were called and Disney stepped up, giving us a stroller and providing transportation for the remainder of our stay and the return trip home, 650 miles away. We waited, hoping that the car would be found and also hoping that it wouldn't (because who doesn't want a reason to go get a new car?). The Orange County Sheriffs called us on Halloween; my car had been located at an industrial park about 20 miles outside of Orlando. I felt a sense of relief and then one of disappointment when they told us that the radio and stroller had been taken. But it was no big deal; everything was covered by insurance and stuff can be replaced.

My car finally made it back to town today. We went to the shop where they're checking it out to get some things out of it that I had been needing. I opened the door and then I couldn't stop crying. My things, all the little things that accumulate, were scattered everywhere. There were papers in the floor, all over the backseat; a CD was discarded in the passenger floorboard, the only remnant of the dozens that I kept in the car. Jym's Air Force sweatshirt was thrown over the backseat, but mine was missing. The change jar that I keep in the console was gone. Jym's Zippo was gone, taken from its place in the ashtray.

And it finally hit me, what seems like such a nothing on paper. It was just a car, just some stuff and a handful of change. But it was mine. These things, this space, it was mine.

And now it doesn't feel like mine anymore. I sat in the driver's seat; my feet didn't reach the pedals and it was leaned back at an uncomfortable angle. I felt like there was someone lurking over my shoulder, but of course I was alone, sitting in a car and crying in the bright afternoon sunlight. Jym came up behind me and I leaned into him; crying out the loss that I thought I hadn't felt.