50th Wedding Anniversary

Dear Dad,

Yesterday was your 50th wedding anniversary. You and Mom were supposed to be on a cruise touring Europe and celebrating. Instead, Mom was with me in Mattituck doing last minute cleaning and packing so that she can sell the house. It’s happening. There is no hope that she will change her mind. All is lost. As we were driving, she said, “This isn’t at all how I imagined things would go. Your father and I always talked about how when we died you’d get the house.” And you had even told G3 that someday the house would be his. But after three decades, the house is no longer my home.

In the late afternoon, after Mom and I finished packing, I took one last walk down to the sound. I walked on the rocks and beach where G3 and I spent so much time last year when I was homeschooling him. After all these years, it’s hard to believe that beach will no longer be part of my life.

Twice during the day, once while in the backyard and once while walking, a large group of small (maybe medium) sized birds took off from the surrounding trees, swarmed overhead, and then flew off. I am not sure what type of blackbird, my bird identification skills are poor, but I had never seen them here before. The fact that there were so many, that they flew so close, and appeared twice made me feel as if they were trying to tell me something— an omen I couldn’t quite read properly. Or maybe, I am losing my mind. That seems quite likely.

The movers came this morning. Mom is leaving most of the furniture behind but Kati and I need dressers and G3 really wants the couch. We are also taking the chest so G3 can store things in it. As soon as the movers arrived my stoicism completely dissolved and tears ran uncontrollably. I can’t believe this is my last day here. My last morning to wake up in my bed, to take a walk, to smell the salty air. I am in pieces. Packing up the car, I feel crushed by the weight of memories. I keep seeing G3 as a toddler, calling excitedly to you out the open car window for you to come and carry him into the house. I see you hurrying down the stairs, opening the door and pulling G3 into your arm. I keep replaying those happy mornings when we arrived for a long weekend or a week and I can’t believe those happy days are gone — forever.

The movers couldn’t take the couch. They couldn’t get it through the door and they couldn’t disassemble it because of all the electrical wiring. I have no idea how they got it in the house to begin with. Mom said you were here when it was delivered and would therefore know how they got it through the doorway. One more important piece of information you took to the grave. Mom had been outside working in the garden so she didn’t have a clue. G3 is distraught. He wanted the couch because of all the movies you and him watched while sitting on the couch together. The couch reminds him of you. I wanted it because it is practically new. You bought it relatively recently because you had no idea you would die so soon, no idea the house would get sold. 

The house is practically empty, the cabinets are bare. Whenever we came out you always made sure to have whatever food G3 and I liked best. The cabinets were always full, we never wanted for anything. You made sure of that. Now, all we want is you. One more day. One more hour. One more moment.

It is a beautiful late summer day. There is a soft gentle breeze that feels like fall. I am sitting out back on the deck listening to the leaves rustle and the birds chirp. And all I can do is cry because you are dead and Mom has sold the house. It’s too much loss, too much sorrow. I don’t know how to absorb it all. 

Mom even sold the kayaks. She sold them to the real estate agent because I don’t have room to store them at my place. We had so many fun excursions in the kayaks, exploring the inlets in Peconic. I begged her to keep them, to store them in the garage until I could move and had room for them, but she fears another flood, and the damage they might cause. But I still remember the day you bought the first kayak. You were so excited, like a little kid who finally got the toy they always wanted. And now that toy belongs to someone else.

The closing isn’t until the end of the month, but for all intents and purposes this is the end. What a contrast to last time movers showed up. I was ecstatic to get rid of the condo, euphoric to leave Bedminster. But today, getting ready to leave Mattituck for the last time I feel like my world is ending. How many times did I leave with G3? And each time, I didn’t even reach the end of the dirt road before he sighed heavily, “I miss Nona and Grandpa.” We could still see you in the rear view mirror but he couldn’t wait till we came back. Each time I promised him he’d see you again. Until we couldn’t. And now, when I leave it will be for good.

Thank you for all the good times we had and for all the wonderful memories. If you hadn’t made it so much fun, such a paradise for me and G3, leaving wouldn’t hurt this much.

I’m sure it was my imagination, but when I got in my car and shifted into reverse, I glanced back at the house and I swear I saw you sitting on the stoop hunched over and crying.

I miss you!