Day 519

According to my memory on Facebook, it was two years ago today that my son asked his grandfather to please take him to the sound so that we could watch the sun set. Of course, Dad said yes. He always said yes to my son. And that night it was a beautiful sunset. We had a most enjoyable evening sitting on the beach. I honestly thought we’d have many more summer nights together, more sunsets. But that was the was the last one. The last sunset I watched with Dad. When he died, everyone told me the missing gets easier with time. But here I am missing him more today than I did yesterday.

Is it possible for the weight of sorrow to press down so heavily upon a person that they shrink? Kati drove our son out to Mattituck on Saturday so that he could spend a few finals days here. Kati has always been shorter than me — only by an inch, maybe an inch and a half — but when she showed up she was taller than me. Even she thought it was odd. For once she was looking down at me as if I had fallen into a hole. And it had only been a week since I had last seen her, when I was last taller than her. What other than deep sadness could account for me shrinking?

I’m sure it’s the selling of the house that has me in very poor spirits. It’s hard to enjoy a place in the final days you have it when you’re so busy getting ready to lose it. Mom is having an estate sale on Saturday in hopes of selling the furniture. Much of the furniture she’s had since she and Dad first bought the place 30 years ago. How many meals have we eaten at that table? However, they only recently bought a new couch and the mattress on my son’s bed Dad bought for him shortly after he was born. Dad certainly expected to have more summers out here. I won’t be here for the estate sale. I feel bad because Mom could use the emotional support. But on the other hand, not being will be better for me emotionally. I can’t hold mom up when I can barely stand myself. I can’t be here because my son will be competing in a tournament. How many times since Dad died have I had to chose between being a good daughter or being a good mother? I can’t miss a tournament. My son would never forgive me. The last eighteen months have been difficult. I’m afraid losing this house might be the final straw. The one that breaks me.

Speaking of my fragile emotional state, when it comes to COVID I snap far too easily. I went with my mother the other day to buy corn from a local farm. She asked for four ears — less than four dollars — and they refused to take cash. I asked why, and the girl behind the counter said, “COVID.” I laughed at her, “If you’re so concerned about COVID why aren’t you wearing a mask?” And then I noticed the sign that said you needed to wear a mask to get service. This increased my laughter as I said to her, “You are such a fucking hypocrite. You want me to wear a mask, but you aren’t wearing one. Obviously, you really don’t give a shit about COVID.” It’s probably good I’m not sending my son to school. Even though Murphy said everyone in schools will be required to wear a mask, I worked in enough schools to know that rules don’t necessarily mean anything. If it’s easier for teachers and administrators not say anything they won’t. And if my kid was in a school where the mask mandate wasn’t seriously enforced the both of us would lose it. 

I really don’t understand how we as a society have moved so far from science. Why are people so freaking stupid when it comes to masks and vaccines? Or maybe, there have always been odd ones out there — like my grandmother. One day, when my father was in elementary school, his entire class lined up to get the polio vaccine. Every single kid, except my father. Until the day he died, he remembered that day vividly. He was angry at his mother for not permitting him to get vaccinated. Though I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember why my grandmother wouldn’t allow it. But Dad was always incredulous when he told the story. Polio paralyzed kids. It killed them. What parent wouldn’t want to protect their kid from a deadly disease? I wish I remember my father’s explanation for his mother hesitancy. I wish he were still alive. I wonder what he’d say about all the morons refusing to get vaccinated now. All the parents who refuse this simple step to protect their kids. The COVID vaccine came far too late for him. But I have no doubt, if he had been alive, he’d have been one of the first to get it.

My son really wanted to go kayaking today, one final time before the house got sold (and perhaps the kayaks too). My car is too small to transport the boats so we had to carry them down to the inlet. It’s not far, maybe 500 meters. But they get heavy and the handles cut in my son’s hands. So carrying them is a slow and tedious process. We walk maybe ten meters, then put the boats down and rest. Then walk and rest. When we finally got down to the inlet the tide was lower than I’d ever seen it. As we walked down to the water, our feet sunk into the muck. We sunk down to our knees and when we pulled our feet up the muck ate our flip flops. We had to reach in and rescue our shoes with our hands, but when we stepped without shoes broken shells sliced the bottoms of our feet. They were raw after two steps. We weren’t turning around after that. More steps would mean more slicing. We launched the boats but we couldn’t go back the way we came. It would be hours before the tide came in. Our only other option was to paddle down to the sound. The paddling was fun, but then when we pulled the boats out on the sand, not muck, we had a good two and half kilometers back to the house. And at ten meter increments, which shrunk closer to five meter as got closet to home, it took forever. We spend far more time transporting kayaks than we spent in the water. Both of us were extremely disappointed. What should have been fun — a finally happy memory in a place we love — was miserable. I’m sure if my feet didn’t hurt so much, if I wasn’t so tired, I’d see this as some sort of metaphor. But I knew exactly how bad of a place I’m in mentally when my son said, “Look on the bright side, you could probably write a really good essay about today,” and I fought back tears, the thought of writing suddenly felt like an overwhelming task.

I measured my son for the last time on my bedroom door frame. He’s grown four inches since his grandfather died. Four inches of missed memories. Four inches that should have been filled with happiness and hugs. I always thought my son would grow into adulthood here, but the house will be sold and the lines charting his growth will be painted over in a month. A broken trail. A fractured map. Tonight, I also finished the vodka and kahlau in the house. How many black russians had my father made me over the years? And after a year, they still don’t taste as good as when Dad made them.