As a child growing up in Montana, I imagined my cowboy grandpa’s life to be as inspiring and majestic as the mountains around me. I was wrong.
It’s sad that so many of us in the U.S. – and especially in Seattle – live so far away from our families, our parents, our loved ones. That’s why spending time with my widowed mom means so much to me, here for Christmas in Wisconsin.
Before I was born, you knew me. You sang lullabies to me, still unborn. You memorized my kicks, my restlessness. Wept with joy in hope, and wept with fear in despair: how to feed this unexpected mouth? Your first baby died – you were just 22…
These loved ones, our dead. Does healing ever begin? Is that deep hole always there? They say time heals, but I’m not so sure. In these strange moments, in everyday moments, he pops up. ‘Hello there.’
[PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS IN THE PROCESS OF BEING UPDATED FROM AN OLDER FORMAT TO A NEW WORDPRESS FORMAT, SO PHOTOS AND FONTS ARE ALL OVER THE PLACE. BEAR WITH…
February 18, 2012. A year, how can it be? Gone.
We, his children, dig his grave and bury him – our father.