Memories will linger

     Getting older is difficult--not because of my own aches and pains, but because all those around me are moving on the same path. We spend years learning how to earn a living, how to think, and how to get ahead in our lives. Do we spend enough time learning that we parents, siblings, classmates--all will die? If we knew--really really knew--would we live a little differently?

    I ask this because I have just lost my stepfather. If I had known that the last time I saw him would be the last time, would I have spent more time? Laughed more? Taken time for more stories of when the kids were young and spent most weekends with him and Mom? Sat down for a beer and to listen to him talk about the best way to fish for trout?

    Although I was already grown and out of the house when David and Mom married, I still got 35 years with him. Fond memories of them keeping the kids most weekends while Stacey and I worked, of long Christmas vacations at the house in Pelham, of family trips to spend on the Ocoee River. A cabinet builder by trade and an avid outdoorsman, he could give to his grandkids a rambunctious time outdoors that a lot of their peers missed. Little things-cooking steaks for them every weekend, taking interest in their hobbies--are usually more important than we realize at the time. Paying attention to those little things means that we matter to someone. 

    When we moved to Texas more than a decade ago, we lost that ability to visit often. Christmas and the occasional summer trip became the norm, rather than the frequent trips we enjoyed earlier. The pandemic further cut down on travel, made everyone isolate themselves for a couple of years. By then, it was obvious that his health had declined and those old days were gone. 

    Memories remain.

    Memories of him buying 5-year-old Andrew a professional-grade toolchest and tools, since a plastic set of play screwdrivers and hammers just would not cut it. Memories of him deftly handling a kayak or canoe on the breath-sucking-in-shock icy Ocoee River. Memories of him swaddled in mist as he fished for trout, hour after hour.

    David comes from a large and close-knit family, and I am glad that his sisters will hold my mother up in this critical time of shock and grief. Adam, Shawn, and I are spread over the country, and she needs support close by every day. I am glad that she can lean on them as she struggles with her own memories of David. He has been sick for a long time. I hope she can find the strength to reach back past the last couple of years of increasing poor health and remember the sunshine and the light.

      When you lose someone close, there is a gaping hole left. Sometimes times heals you, sometimes it just blunts the rawness-but at any rate, the change is different for every one. I do not know the answer to how to get over such sorrow, and to tell the truth, I don't know if it is better to suffer through grief artlessly, or to try and distract yourself. I think that a significant relationship is best honored by a honest admission that Yes, this hurts, and it should, because I have lost a lot.

    All I know is that tonight I am going to sit down and take out all my photo albums and refresh myself with 35 years of knowing David. Of honoring what he meant to my mother. To my children. To me. Farewell, David. It was a pleasure and an honor to know you, to be in your life. I have such a collection of moments and memories with you.