Saturday, March 27, 2010

To Remember or Not to Remember

I'm sitting quietly in the dark at Jack Huff's Motor Lodge in Gatlinburg, TN. My mom is asleep already. At the beginning of the evening I would have guessed I would be the one asleep and she the one unsettled. Without even thinking, apparently, she made reservations here for us to stay on our way home from Nashville. The big thing is this: we haven't been here since my dad died. Staying in the same motel, eating at the same places, seeing all the same things. She said she thought that it had "been long enough" and that we would be okay. We ate supper at the Applebarn restaurant. There is a picture hanging on the refrigerator door at home of my mom and dad walking out of the same building, victoriously holding soup (the best thing in the world to my mother.) I sat in the van while she paid and went to the restroom and then I watched her walk out, alone. We drove out of the parking lot and onto the parkway and on into Gatlinburg, just the two of us. It's strange to think that you would subconsciously expect someone who died a year and a half ago to walk in the door. To open the door from the balcony. He loved to sit out there, especially at night and early in the morning. I can see the back of his head just above the window sill, still in pajamas and waiting for the rest of us to get up. I haven't gone out there. My mom went earlier, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's too much him.
The staple of our annual pilgrimage to the Smokies was of course my parents and I. But at some point in high school there came to be a tradition of bringing a friend. One of those friends no longer holds the same place in my life and the memories of my father with her are the hardest to bear simply because it is one more thing that has permanently been ripped away. The other friend is simply in a different spot in life, as we all are, but one that affects his ability, and rightfully, his desire to be a part of the trip. To some extent these thoughts leave me wondering where that puts me at. Fortunately, the purpose of this trip was to prepare for the future. Being in Nashville, near Belmont, with the friends that I made before my life was turned upside down felt so good. I could never explain to these people all that they mean to me. Not to mention how anxious I am to come back there.
I haven't cried about losing Daddy in a while. I'm not sure I even cried on my birthday even though there was a noticeable absence at all the celebrations. But I have learned that when the need is there it is best to let it out. You can't live your life fighting back tears.

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