Day 83

My spouse drove my son to Queens this morning. We all had lunch together and then my spouse returned home. After driving Mom to a doctor’s appointment, we — Mom, my son, the dogs, and me — came out to Long Island. We got here too late to go to the beach. But early enough that we could sit out back for awhile before dinner. I tried to read out on the deck, but I was too tired. I’m still not sleeping well at night, which means I’m tired for much of the day. Keeping my eyes open while reading — if I’m sedentary — is a challenge. Giving up, I put the book behind my head — books double very comfortably as travel pillows — and closed my eyes. In the distance, I could hear the rumble of thunder. I inhaled the clean country air, and let my thoughts drift to Dad. It was almost five o’clock. If Dad were alive he’d have been making himself a manhattan. He’d have come out onto the deck to sit with me — his drink in one hand, a book in the other. We’d have sat quietly reading together, occasionally pausing to exchange a few words. Quiet isn’t the same, when you’re alone.

Mom sat in the living room going through a box of Dad’s keepsakes. She found a felt bookmark shaped like a baseball bat that I made Dad eons ago. The Mets orange and blue bandanna Dad got last year when he took my son to the game. Hat pins that for some reason never made it into one of the many frames that hold his hat pin collection. And so many other things. I couldn’t watch. It made me cry. But not Mom. She lovingly organized everything and then returned the box to Dad’s drawer. 

We ate Chinese food for dinner. Dad ate at the Chinese restaurant often. He’d see the owner at the beach or the library and he’d alway stop to say hello. The owner knew Dad. He knew I belonged to my Dad and so today, when I picked up the food, he asked me how my mom and dad were. I told him Dad died. That the covid killed him. He punched the wall and screamed, “No.” Then he looked at me, tears in his eyes, and offered his condolences. For a man who really only knew Dad in passing, I was surprised by how stricken he looked.

It’s night. Mom is sleeping. She doesn’t sleep well but she does snatch a few moments of slumber here and there. My son is in his room, rebelling as always against going to sleep. At least tonight the rebellion is a silent one and he is in his bed. The dogs are with mom and my son is jealous. He’s hoping one will wander into his room. Through my window drifts the scent of burning wood. Somewhere, someone has a fire. There is a cool breeze so that I feel a slight chill and I can hear the leaves rustling on the trees. Soon I will walk the dogs and then I too can attempt to go to sleep. 

On my wall, beside my bed, is the parchment painting my parents bought me last year when they went to Egypt. My name is written in hieroglyphics and next to my name is a picture of an Egyptian man and an Egyptian woman. The colors — blues, reds, and yellows —  are bright and vivid. Daddy was so excited last year when he gave me the painting. It wasn’t even a full year ago. They got home from their trip in late June, and we came to visit them the day after my son finished third grade. Less than a year. He was so happy, so full of life.

My son has been extremely excited to be with his uncle’s dogs. He was much more excited to see them than he was to see me or my Mom. He loves the dogs, but he overwhelms them. When he sits on the couch, he wants them to cuddle with him, but they are used to my mom and keep drifting back to her. It frustrates my son. In an attempt to keep the dogs close to my son so that he could pet them without having to chase them, Mom sat next to him. Content with her close-by, they let my son pet them.