The other day,
we were
up at the lake house,
putting things away
for the season,
packing up
the odds and ends,
reviewing memories,
winding down.
It's been
just over 3 years
since you died
and I
have a few more things
to tell about,
to record and remember,
to help me
wrap things up.
I remember seeing you,
orange skinned
from liver failure,
entering the front door,
a slightly fatigued look
on your face,
and at that moment,
I had no idea
it would be
the last time
I saw you,
or that a few months
later
I'd move into the basement
of that house
for three weeks
to be close
to your son
and widow.
I made a lot
of phone calls,
did a lot of coordinating
support for your wife,
listened,
and listened
and listened,
and cried
and cried
and cried.
I arranged visits,
I kept some people
at bay,
I got people to
come up and play,
in the midst of it all,
play with me and Josh.
I found out how far
I could go,
how much I could take,
what I could do.
I went over that line
a few times
and I want to
tell about them
because it's good
to know about
your limits
and mostly people
only hear that in
a vague way
and mostly people
haven't been
out there themselves.
The first time,
I offered
to make some
phone calls
to family and friends
who might want to
say something
at the funeral,
and these were
probably the hardest
conversations I have
ever had.
I got off the phone
and burst into tears.
The next time
I remember,
a call came in
from a friend
of your wife's
and I took it.
More bad news:
the friend's husband
had died, only a few days
after you.
I had to take
your widow out to the porch
and give her that news,
and it broke my spirit
for a little bit
and I rushed out
and kayaked hard
for a while.
I told my dad,
who I never tell anything,
that that fall
was the most unhappy
time of my entire life.
I also tell people
that it was good
to find out
that I could put
my values
into action
and wasn't just talking
about integrity and courage.
Ever since those hard times
I've known myself
much more clearly.
-Jim DuBois
Sept 4, 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment