Day 90

When I was little, and Mom and Dad used to rent a house in Mattituck (or Cutchogue) for a month every summer. The first year, Dad bought a big two person inflatable boat — blue and yellow. But the oars never worked well, and so Mom and me and my brother would sit in the boat and Dad would push us for what seemed forever. My brother, the first couple of years, was just a toddler and so he’d sit with Mom at one end. She’d hold him and sometimes he’d fall asleep in her arms. I’d sit at the other end. Always restless, I’d jump in and out of the boat, never resting for long. Crabs bit Dad’s toes and jelly fish stung his legs, but still he kept pushing. He kept us afloat and moving forward. 

Trump is in Bedminster, and the People’s Motorcade resumed their standing protests last night. My spouse deemed it her civic duty to participate. If I had been home I definitely would have joined her. She covered her car with sign’s protesting Trump’s immorality and his incompetence — that fact that he is unfit to lead our nation. For me, she made a colorful sign that said, “Trump’s Lies Killed My Dad.” To fill in the white space she drew the coronavirus. She also had a BLM sign and another questioning, “How many more people have to die?” The question encompasses the virus, police brutality, gun violence and lack of health coverage.  The parade of cars — all covered in signs — lined up by the library and then drove passed Trump’s golf course multiple times. 

Today is the 90th day of my blog, sixty days since Dad died. I still can’t sleep. I lay in bed, my eyes too heavy to read or write or do anything productive, but my mind is unable to let go of consciousness. All I can think about is what Dad is missing, what the rest of us have lost. My anger doesn’t help the sleeplessness either. If Dad had died of cancer or a stroke or a dozen other health reasons I’d still be sad but my anger wouldn’t be as great. If someone killed someone in your family, you wouldn’t rest until the murderer was prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I don’t have that luxury. Trump killed my father with lies and inaction. No law was broken, but he is just as culpable. Before you argue with me, think about Hitler. How many Jews did he actually kill with his own hands? Yet how many deaths do we hold him responsible for? Hitler died in disgrace, condemned by the moral world. I can only hope for the same end for Trump. That he will be condemned for the callous way he dealt with the virus, his racist and homophobic views and the laws he passed that encouraged strife among Americans. I also hope history will remember his supporters as Clinton dubbed them four years ago. They stood by applauding and cheering him on as he enabled the killing to continue.  

Mom and I drove to a local farm to get some strawberries. A sign told customers they were required to wear face masks. Many did. But not all. Plenty of people were milling about, picking berries, or standing in line with their faces bare, or the masks pulled down on their chins. There wasn’t much social distancing being practiced either. The crowd was too thick. It engaged me. Kids were the worst. So many of them did not have their mouths and noses covered. And this is one of my great concerns for the fall. If schools open their doors, will the kids comply and wear masks? If not, will the administrators have the gumption to immediately send them home? I doubt it. Schools will pander to the parents who demand babysitters. Keeping parents mollified will be a higher priority than keeping teachers safe. 

The beach was chilly today. My son complained the entire time he was there. All he wants to do is watch televisions. When Dad died I allowed it. He needed to melt into the couch and forget his misery. But now, I refuse to allow him to spend hours upon hours staring at a screen, and so I listen to him complain instead. I listen to what a horrible mother I am, and that I care only about myself because I’m forcing him to spend time with me.

When Dad died, a friend of mine — and fellow writer — sent me Lord of the Butterflies by Andrea Gibson. Writers send words — it is one way we heal, by reading work that resonates with us. That’s why art, including literature, is so important. It speaks to the heart, to experiences we share. Art sheds light where there is only darkness. But for weeks I was in too much of fog to be able to appreciate poetry, and so waited into I felt I could better appreciate it. Gibson’s poems are political and powerful, sorrowful and thought provoking. I can relate on more levels than I might have guessed. Her anger almost calms me, vindicates how I feel. Our country is far from perfect, and we seriously need to examine our priorities.

Sunset tonight was beautiful, though there was a fire in the distance, the smoke rising up and drifting across the sun. My son enjoys these nightly walks on the beach with the dogs. But it is impossible not to think of Dad every time we go, and the last sunset we watched as a family.