Day 130

One hundred days! Daddy died one hundred days ago, and still the pain feels fresh. There is so much I wanted to say that I will never be able to say. And I talked all the time. I told him everything. And yet, I feel like I didn’t tell him enough. 

A friend of mine invited my son over to hangout with her girls this afternoon. While the kids played we talked. My son and I both needed the distraction of friends today. The highlight of the day for my son was going out on the ATV. He’d never been on one before and after one lap around the property he announced that the quad was even more fun than a roller coaster. He enjoyed being able to ride the smaller quad by himself, being in control gave him a huge adrenaline rush. On the longer trial we all doubled up, and so my son rode with me. It was my first time driving an ATV as well, and I admit, I enjoyed it as much as he did. After months of seeing my son sad, it made me happy to see him smiling. He needed today, and not just the escape on the quad, he needed the interaction with other children — peers — kids he could be silly with. Friends with whom he could laugh and joke around with without the shadow of the virus hanging over him. I think he’d still be riding the ATV if we hadn’t had to eat dinner and drive home.

In the car, I called my spouse to let her know I was on the way back home. I apologized for it being so late but she only laughed, “Are you kidding. This is what I expected. I didn’t think you’d be home any earlier.” From there my son took over the conversation. He talked animatedly for forty minutes about how awesome the day was. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so chatty. He talked about how much he and one of the girls are alike, because they both like adventure and daring activities. He talked about riding the ATV and he told his mother that it was easily one of the top five experiences of his life. He talked until we pulled into our parking lot, and then once he walked in the door he was still talking, rehashing the day. 

Snapshot Rewind

Circa 1979: When I was about five years old, Daddy took me to the movies to see Lady and the Tramp. When we got to the theater, the next show was already sold out so Dad had to buy tickets for the following show. Since we had time and he didn’t want to stand around doing nothing, he took me to White Castle for lunch. He ordered four burgers (they are tiny) and fries for himself and two burgers and fries for me. I took one bite of the burger, made a face, pushed it away and told Dad I hated it. He sighed, exasperated. But not wanting me to be hungry he traded me, two burgers for fries. I’m not sure I ever ate so many fries, but I didn’t complain. Dad never took me to White Castle again. But I still remember that afternoon as if it were yesterday, and every time I pass a White Castle or it comes up in conversation I think of Dad.