Day 520

In novels, after a death, there is always closure. The novel wouldn’t work if there wasn’t. The reader would be left wanting more. The plot would feel unfinished. Real life is not a novel. After sixteen months, I still can’t find closure. Each time I try to locate it, it eludes me. Maybe the universe just wants me to be angry, bitter, miserable, and disappointed.

Today, my son asked if we could please go to Greenport one last time before Mom sells the house. He wanted to get rubber duckies, ride the carousel, and get ice cream all the things he used to do with his grandfather. Ironically, when I logged into facebook this morning my memory was a conversation that took place two years ago between Dad and my son. Since it was cloudy, Grandpa suggested that we go into Greenport to play mini-gold. The idea excited my son who immediately asked if he could also get ducks, ride the carousel, and have ice cream. To each request, Dad, without hesitation, answered yes. My son wanted to play mini-golf today, but I said no. My mother has never — not once — played mini-golf without Dad. I wasn’t sure she could handle it today. I was afraid it would be too much. Instead of a fun time, I feared she’d spend the time missing him. I didn’t want to hurt her. Nor did I want to cry. I’ve played without Dad but the last time we played in Greenport Dad was with us. And just didn’t think I had the emotional strength to deal with ghosts this afternoon.

But we did visit the toy store and my mom told him to pick out as many ducks as he wanted. After all, we’d probably never come back. It was our last time in a store we visited countless times with Dad. My son had no trouble finding eight ducks he didn’t have. Far more than he needed, but because they reminded him of Dad, we didn’t say no.

I cried when when he rode the carousel. If my life were a movie, each rotation would have been a different visit to the carousel with Dad. My son would have started out as a toddler with Dad standing next to him, holding him on the horse. After a few times around, I’d have seen Dad sitting on a horse next to him. And finally, Dad would have been standing next to me watching him go around on his own. 

There used to be so much joy in our visits to Greenport. Dad had the ability to make everything fun. Today felt like a funeral. We were mourning the fact that Mom is selling the the house. For lunch, I suggested that we go to Crabby Jerry’s for fried clams. The place reminds us of Dad, and I thought it would be nice to eat there one last time. Every time Dad suggested that we eat there they were always open. I had no reason to think they wouldn’t be open today, but when we arrived we were greeted with sign saying they were closed. The sign felt like a slap and all three of us were deeply disappointed. We still went for ice cream, but the ice cream was bland — tasteless.

Mom didn’t come to the beach with us. She wasn’t feeling well. The anxiety and sadness about selling the house is catching up to her. But I took my son. I hoped we’d have a fun time at the beach since our days there are severely limited. Instead, I got aggravated. While we were in the water, I looked over at our things and saw a young boy — probably two — rummaging through my bag. He took out my wallet and starting pulling things out of it, tossing them into the wind. His friends or relatives — maybe three or four — were throwing rocks at my son’s blow-up alligator. I sprinted out of the water, ran up to the kid, snatched the wallet from his hands, and yelled at him. He had no business playing with my things. Immediately, he and his friends started to cry. The two female adults with them scampered over to comfort the kids. One of them had the audacity to scold me for yelling at the the kids. Seriously? They had their backs to the kids. They weren’t paying attention to them — at all. They permitted the kids to not only play with my wallet but toss my sunglasses and my son’s sunglasses its to the sand which scratched the lenses. And they don’t want me to scream at the miscreants. Sorry, but if you neglect your children you forfeit the right to be upset when another parent has to put them in their place. I went to the lifeguard to place a complaint but of course he did nothing. He didn’t want to get involved. So now my kid and I have damaged sunglasses. And the parents-guaridans-babysitters, whoever they hell they were, told me they weren’t responsible for the damage. Well, maybe next time their neglect will lead to kidnapping. I’m so freaking fed-up with irresponsible parents. Let me remind you, our days here are numbered. All I wanted was a nice day at the beach with my son. But no, the universe wouldn’t even permit me to have a couple of hours of peace.

While novels seem to have it all wrong when it comes to closure, they are completely accurate when it comes to demonstrating the way death changes people. My mother is not who she used to be. She is plagued with fear and anxiety. Her life is now about survival, and I think she’s forgotten how to enjoy anything. My son too is not the same happy child he was two years ago. There is a sarcastic edge to him. A level of cynicism that scares me, even though I understand it. He hates the world, especially people who won’t wear masks, and I can’t blame him. As for me, I’m even more emotional than I used to be. It doesn’t take much to make me cry. I have less patience than I used to — and I never had much — and I have absolutely no tolerance for bullshit or assholes. COVID has exposed the world’s selfishness and shown me that I was right all along. People suck and I want no part of them. Of course there are exceptions. I just wish there were more of them. And if you are reading this, the odds are you are an exception. But everyone else…well, I’ll say no more because I’m still in a bitter cranky mood, about Dad dying, the house selling, the kid nosing around in my bag, and the stupidity on social media regarding masks and vaccines.

Oh, and the governor of Texas tested positive for COVID. The freaking idiot who wants kids to die. Since my thoughts are less than kind, I won’t expand on them. Like I’ve said before, COVID  is a trigger for me. It sets me off. The asshole won’t wear a mask. And now he’s sick. But, he’ll have more than my father did. More medicine, more attention, more care. And that pisses me off more than anything. He courted COVID. He doesn’t deserve medical intervention. Can’t we just set him out on a remote mountain somewhere with nothing but thoughts and prayers?