Mama – Day 78

I am back in Queens. My brother went home to Nashville, but mom still needs help. My brother got her a computer and an iPhone. She last felt comfortable using modern technology sometime in the 1970s. Leapfrogging fifty years is proving to be a challenge. However, my brother sat with her to give her many tutorials, and now I’m here to reteach and reinforce. Those of you who know how bad I am when it comest to technology are probably laughing. But I at least know enough to get her comfortable with the basics.

My son is not happy about doing a graphic novel unit in school. He complained about the prospect of having to read a graphic novel until I convinced him that Wimpy Kid is a graphic novel of sorts. He used to like Wimpy Kid so the prospect of rereading one of the books was not terrible. But now he has to write a graphic novel and he’s flipping out over the fact that he has to draw. I can’t blame him. I never liked to draw in class either. My spouse managed to get him to draft a summary of a story. But that’s all he’d do today. Something on paper is better than nothing. Hopefully tomorrow he’ll be up for expanding the plot. I’m not going to worry too much about the pictures just yet — I figure for a writing class, the emphasis should be on writing anyway.

This morning, before I left for New York, my son and I went to play tennis. While walking to the courts he said, “I’m going to have a lot to tell my kids, if I ever have them, about this year. Think about it, Mama. I’m only ten and I’m living through a deadly virus, a crashing economy, and another Martin Luther King era. And Grandpa died. That’s a lot for a kid.”

His accomplishment of the day was another painted rock — the German flag. Because Grandpa was German.

New York City had changed since I was last here. There are more people out and about walking around. And I haven’t heard a single ambulance siren since I arrived. I walked to the store for Mom and on the way I walked past the cemetery. There was only one new grave.

Without Dad, this house feels wrong. Empty. I miss him so much more when I’m here. Mom said things are starting to randomly fall apart. One of Dad’s desk drawers broke. My bed broke. It’s as if even the house is angry that Dad died.

I’ve been looking closely at numbers related to Dad’s death and here’s an interesting fact I realized regarding his siblings: My uncle died in the 12th month (he was the oldest), my aunt died in the 8th month (the middle child), and Dad died in the 4th month (the youngest).