Day 82

My mother spent the day trying to organize my dad’s junk drawer down in the basement. She spent hours sorting nails, and separating them based on size. “You’re dad would never have done this,” she announced to me when I went downstairs to check on her. She’s probably right. There is one jumble of nails and that worked for him, so why would he have bothered to organize it? Perhaps the better question is, why is mom trying to organize it? I can’t envision her selecting nails and hammering something into the wall. There’s nothing to hang. And if there was, it wouldn’t take but a few seconds to find the appropriate nail. But maybe the organizing calms her. The shifting through metal puts her mind at ease.

While mom labored with nails in the basement, I visited with the oversized plastic box that contains Dad’s ashes. Attached to the box is a card that reads, “The Cremated Remains of Gary A. Jaeger.” But mostly, the box is filled with the remains of the simple pine coffin they used to transport his body. What I want to do is pour the ashes onto the floor and sift through them, separate that which was once Dad from that which was once wood. It would be a morbid endeavor, but somehow the pine seems a violation. As if it is soiling my father. 

Perhaps I return to the ashes to remind myself that Dad is really dead. The days go on. The sun  rises and sets. Everything is the same, except for Dad’s absence. While we were eating lunch mom said, “It doesn’t seem real. You father planned to do so many things. We were supposed to get a new door this year.” Such a small thing. We were supposed get a new door. The we in Mom’s life has become an I. Just like that, after 48 years of marriage, she’s become singular. 

Last week, my spouse commented, “What is our son going to do for Father’s Day in the future? In school, he always made things for your dad. Who will fill that role now?” The honest answer — no one. No one will ever be able to fill Dad’s role. Yeah, he might find other male role models, but it will never be the same.

And now there is this bullshit poem going around on Facebook that starts off, “What if 2020 isn’t canceled?” That’s the sort of elitist bullshit that can only be penned by someone who hasn’t experienced the death of a loved one. Fuck, if 2020 were only canceled, when it was over perhaps I could apply to get my dad back. But ask anyone who’s parent, spouse, grandparent, or child died and I bet they won’t look at this as a canceled year. Canceled are the proms and graduations. Sporting events and recitals. If that is your only loss, you haven’t suffered, not really. You’ve only experienced an inconvenience. The poem goes on to state, “What if 2020 was the year we’ve been waiting for?” Well isn’t that a punch in the gut to 110,000 people who have died. They didn’t spend their lives waiting for death. Do not make a mockery of the misery in which they were killed. No one waits to die, especially not alone. “2020 isn’t cancelled, but rather the most important year of them all.” Sorry, but the year my father died isn’t the most important. It is the most tragic. Calling attention to things being canceled and not attention to the death toll shows the shallowness of the author. Things in my life haven’t been canceled. They’ve been terminated. To hell with people complaining about having to put their lives on hold. Their worlds will resume soon enough. But death is permanent. 

It has been dreary day. Cloudy all morning and then raining in the later part of the afternoon. The rain, the clouds, the gloom exacerbate my loneliness. Compound my sorrow. Shitty people have been left untouched by the virus. It’s so unfair. My son needs his grandfather. I need my dad. 

My son lost televisions privileges. Stuck in he house, he is bored, and so he took it upon himself to clean the bathroom. I suppose it’s worthwhile endeavor. It’s better than sitting in his room complaining he has nothing to do.