Saturday, October 9, 2010

Two...sometimes it is the loneliest number.

I woke up yesterday morning and my first thought, which is generally, "What was that thud?!" was instead, "Two years ago today was the last time I spoke to you." I have to admit, that might be the worst wake-up I've ever experienced. I guess I had assumed that the first year without you would be the hardest, but it would appear that this two-year anniversary of ours is proving to be the most difficult.

Words cannot express the emptiness I feel when the memories grab me. The pain is almost as fresh as the day I found you. Although in truth, this pain must be greater, as I have now grasped the realization that you are gone. I fight to keep these memories with me, but sometimes they hurt too much. Some days, like today, I want to forget, if only for a moment, so I can enjoy watching Deuce try and ride his bike without training wheels. (I hope you watched that hot mess from heaven. I know you would have laughed if you had been here.)

I do cherish these fleeting memories that sneak in when least expected. This morning, I suddenly remembered the picnic we shared at Norris Lake, sitting on a red and white table cloth. I believe I was about six. If I close my eyes tightly, I can still see you pulling the fried chicken out of the antique picnic basket you had gotten from your grandmother; a leg for each of us. I can feel the warmth of the sun; see the yellow marks on our hands from pressing the dandelions into our palms. I cannot remember the conversation we shared, but I'm sure it was hilarious. We always had a well-matched wit.

I think that is what I have missed the most these past two years. I miss our laughter. I miss our inside jokes that would anger Mams to the point of calling us "Assheads"...and the giggles that we shared for years over that. I miss being able to tell you the profanity that my sons were spouting and admitting that I told everyone they learned it from you. But I can still hear you say, "Dammit, Amy. Now I can never go to grandparents day!"

On my last trip to Knoxville, I stopped by your grave. I laid a rose there since I always brought you flowers.

The boys watched from a distance as I spoke softly to a piece of granite of how I miss you. They danced around the headstones, as kids do, to give us space. When I had said my peace, with tears streaming, Deuce came over and sat on my knee.

"Momma," he said in the softest voice a four year old can muster, "Do you miss Nana?" Looking him in the eyes, I said, "Yes, baby. I do miss her so very much." He looked down at the rose and said, "Momma, I wish I could bring Nana back." "Deuce, I would love to have her back, but she is in a much better place," I told him with my voice cracking. He put his soft little hand on my cheek, brushed a tear away and said, "Momma, I miss Nana more than you." Smiling, I asked, "Baby, do you remember Nana?" Deuce grinned and said, "Nope." Then ran off to play.

It was at that moment I realized, thankfully, that Deuce has our sense of humor.

I love you, forever.


Angie @ Just Like The Number said...

I'm always so glad to see you pop up in my reader, even if it is a sad panda post. I miss your writing.

I'm so sorry that you lost your mother too young. It didn't hit me until I saw the picture of the headstone, that your mom passed away 7 years to the day that Mike's mom passed. And while I know that losing a mother-in-law is in no way the same as losing your mother, I do miss her, too. It's been 9 years, but I still have days where I cry. I still have days where I'm angry that she isn't here to laugh with (or at) her grandchildren.

I hope your good memories sharpen and the grief dulls with each passing day. Hugs.

Avitable said...

It's nice that your mom's sense of humor will live on in your children, and in you. Hugs.

jae said...

As usual you have me tearing up and then laughing before the tear is even down my cheek. Love you.