4th of July

Dad was a soldier a quarter of his life.  He didn’t talk about his experiences in Korea or Vietnam much, or at all, but he flew a flag and replaced it every Independence Day.  Mom wasn’t born in the country, but I heard her say a million times that “America is the best country in the world.”  There was always  a celebration on the 4th of July at their house–tons of food, and family and friends and neighbors.  I woke up today, not really sure I could face another day of missing them like I have been.  So I went on a bike ride.  It was hot as hell and the hills seemed higher than usual.  At one point, I actually stopped and lay down on the side of the road because I felt dizzy and like I was going to pass out.  I was irritated that I still am not as strong as I think I should be.  I made myself get back on my bike and get to the top of the hill, even though if someone would have offered me a ride, I would have taken it.  It’s not just my physical strength that’s zapped, it’s my emotional strength too.  I don’t know how to build it back up. 

When I got home, Shayne took one look at me and got me a cold drink of water and a popsicle from the freezer.  Despite everything he has been through, he still is gentle and kind and will do anything I ask.  He said, “This must be a hard day for you.”  And because it’s Shayne, I shrugged and said, “It could be worse, right?”  My phone was sitting on the coffee table and it looked like I had ten or twelve messages.  I opened up Facebook, and the eulogy I had written three years ago was posted on my feed.  I almost ignored it, but then I actually read it, because that day was a blur for me and I didn’t really remember what I had written.    I remember writing it the night before the funeral in one of the kids’ spiral notebooks. I remember standing in front of the church and looking up once and taking in the crazy amount of people who had come to honor my parents.  And then I remember finding strength deep down inside of me to read my words, without tears.

One of the stories my mother loved to tell was the story of how she met my father. She was working in a rental store in Cambridge, England. My dad was a soldier and had come to the store to rent a television. Mom said he kept coming back to complain about he TV, and to ask her on a date. She said she didn’t like his shoes, but she finally said yes because he was so, so nice. On their first date they went for a ride on a double decker bus. I have spent most of my adult life studying how my parents went from a single bus ride to a lifetime of love. In some ways they were so different. Dad came from the mountains; Mom from the sea. Dad traveled the world; Mom was terrified of airplanes. Dad was quiet, reserved, and introspective. Mom loved to talk, she hugged strangers, and you always, always knew what she was thinking. What they both had in common was faith. Faith was their secret ingredient, the glue that held them together. Faith in God, but also faith in goodness, faith in kindness, faith in each other. Their lives were full of believing the best in everyone and treating everyone with kindness and love. Many, many people have come to me to share small acts of kindness my parents touched their lives with–everything from leaving cold soda for the trash men to offering shelter to those down on their luck. Their generosity knew no bounds and they gave to me, my brothers, and everyone they met. Their last act was an example of their love and kindness. They came to my house with tamales and tortillas for my son, crackers and cream cheese for my daughter and forty dollars for me. I said, “Dad, I don’t need your money” and he said, “you’ve got to feed those kids.” I know I hugged them. I know I said I love you. And I know we waved good-bye before they set off “up the hill” to Cripple Creek. They were happy, healthy, and in love. And that is how I will always remember them.  Their death was sudden and shocking and horrifying. It has stunned our family and our community. Yet my parents are together and I have faith that their love will never stop touching us.

I would like to say that reading the words gave me strength, but when I read them this morning, tears sprang to my eyes.  It was so short.  It made me remember how numb I was and scared.  But I’m not sure I’d do it any differently.  My parents were a love story.  They wouldn’t have wanted me to suffer like this; but I feel like I am stuck in my pain.  I am not sure how to break free and find my way to strength again.  Too bad there isn’t a machine like the vacuum at the car wash that could just suck all the bad stuff away.  So I spent the 4th painting the porch and watching the dogs swim in the river and eating some raspberries off the vine.  I’m spending the evening with James, because the only way I know how to get through is to keep on breathing.