A New Page — A Few New Pages & Domain, Actually

This feels weird. I’m too nostalgic to switch blogs… but I’ve done it. Well, sort of. It’s still WordPress and my archives were switched over. But I still feel bad leaving this radchel.wordpress.com domain. It’s comparable to the way I felt bad when I put certain stuffed animals on the floor when I went to bed. I just wish we could all sleep together.

I’m very aware of how that sounds and I’m going to leave it.

Casey Friend graciously set it up. I took over a month to officially switch over. I then changed themes, screwed something up, and switched it back to maintenance mode. Then I switched it back to the theme he set for me and officially put it up. It’s pretty similar, so I shouldn’t feel bad to say goodbye to radchel, but she’s been good to me.

Cheers (*hold the eye contact*) to something new!
www.rachelgittens.com

Feelings and Burdens and Beauty A Year Later

It has almost been a year.

A year of feeling. A year of making jokes about it. A year of relating to people a little more because now I too know that loss.

It has almost been a year…

I am reminded by the smell of the baked pear and apple Glade candle that I bought. It’s sweet smell brings me back to a room lit only by candlelight and white christmas lights. A room with flowers from housemates and a piece of paper that said “We love you, Rads” from work. I’m brought back to a hopeless and overwhelmed feeling the waiting for “it” to happen gave me as I laid in my bed with used tissues under my pillows and on the floor.  They weren’t all from crying. I was sick and grateful because I could blame tear filled eyes on sneezing if I really wanted to.

I am reminded by the signs for the Volusia County Fair. I went with my sister and cousins, and friends from Orlando came to join. I rode the zipper. Something I regretted before I even got on and saw them poor a bucket of water into one of the cages to “clean” the puke off. We went to Chilli’s after because it’s just about the only place to go in Deland other than IHOP at that time.

And now, I am brought back to that booth in the company of Liz, Lori, Aaron and Scott. And I am brought back to the text message.

The one that read:
“He passed… 11:06.”

I expected to cry right away. The way you think you would breakdown when you hear your father is dead. I had broken down so many times already though. I had four years to prepare for that news. And so when I went outside with Liz, I didn’t cry. We sat on a bench and it became a little more real. But I didn’t cry until I got in my car the next day to leave my house and go back to Orlando.

In that way, I guess I was lucky. Because it all spanned four years I got to spread out my grief. But in that way, I felt I was a burden to so many people. To friends, pastors, leaders, etc who had to hear about it… again.
And now again.

It has almost been a year and I still find myself questioning. I don’t question his death. I don’t question Korsakoff’s syndrome (maybe a little bit). Almost a year later, I still ask the question of how am I supposed to feel? I feel no validity in being sad. I feel no right to dread this week. I feel wrong to have had a hard time holding it together this morning.

Why? Who said it is wrong? Because whoever said it was wrong only knew what was wrong for them, and maybe people like them. I feel this is right. Not because anyone told me it is, but because it is simply how I feel.

In that way, I still feel like a burden. Sure, Friday marks one year since he died. But I was crying about this, I was talking about this, I was questioning this two years ago… three years ago… four years ago. And here I am, still trying to convince myself I don’t need a manual–I don’t need to be told that I’m allowed to feel the way I do, but all I want is someone to tell me I can feel this way. But again I tell myself, you don’t need a manual on how people deal with this stuff. There would have to be millions of manuals for the millions of people and our millions of problems. I need to feel what I feel and not what someone tells me to feel.

That all may sound vague, I suppose.

Buscaglia probably said it better. Maybe you’ll read it and say, “he’s telling you how to feel, how to live.” But he’s encouraging you to follow your own path, or at least that’s what I get from him. One of my favorites:

“We have forgotten what it is to laugh and to feel good laughing. We are taught that a young sophisticated lady does not laugh boisterously–she titters. Who said? Emily Post? She’s sick! Why should we listen to somebody else tell us how to live our existence? Yet every day we see in the papers “Dear Miss Post, My daughter is being married in February. What kind of flowers should she carry?” If your daughter wants to carry radishes, let her carry them. “Dear Interior Decorator, I have puce curtains in my living room. What color should my rug be?” I can just see this little cat sitting his office saying, “Heh, heh, heh.” And he replies, “Purple.” So you run out and buy thousands of dollars worth of purple rugs with puce curtains, and you’re stuck with them, and you deserve it!

We don’t trust our own feelings any more. Men don’t cry. Who said? If you feel like crying, you cry. I cry all the time. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad, I cry when a student says something beautiful, I cry when I read poetry.

If you feel something, let people know that you feel it. Don’t you get tired of these stoic faces that don’t show anything? If you feel like laughing, laugh. If you like what somebody says, go up and give them a hug. If it is right, it will be right.”

This week, I want to trust my feelings. I want to trust that it’s okay to be a little sad a year later.

It’s okay to be nostalgic. To look further and further back and miss what was. But it’s oh so good to remember what is, to remember where I am, to remember where it’s all brought me.

In that way, I want to cry… because it’s beautiful.

Remembering, Reminding, and Building on Truth (Among Other Unrelated Things)

I should be packing. Or sleeping. I think sleeping is more important. I’ve already decided packing will just happen during lunch tomorrow. So: I should be sleeping.

But I’ve been thinking…

Actually, I learned something today. A new issue I hadn’t realized, or fully realized, before.

I could come up with a new issue almost weekly, daily even, it seems. But I guess I’m not the only one who could say that.

And with the wise, honest, gracious words of a friend, I can be reminded:

“I think that it’s important to know what you’re working on, but also important to know that you are not solely defined by those things. Have some grace with yourself.”

I’m not very good at addressing too many things at once. When I was dealing with A I couldn’t also very well deal with B. When, on any given day, I’d have to deal with A, B, and C I would have a breakdown.

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I know the truth.

Yet…

When the boss makes more than one joke about how unimportant I am at the company I work for, it brings me back to that tiny insignificant feeling I knew for a very long time. A feeling I know others have felt, and unfortunately plenty of people still feel.

And when I can’t figure out why a situation has affected me the way it has, it takes some round about processing to figure out:

Like other people, I too have a bit of an underlying feeling of not being appreciated.

Does anyone not ever have that problem?

There’s plenty more where that came from.

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You know when you feel invisible for a moment or a few days? Me too. You know when you’re in a group of people, a meeting, or a dinner and you start to feel like you were accidentally invited and you shouldn’t be there? You’re not the only one. Did you all of a sudden realize the job you’ve chosen isn’t one that is going to get much or any recognition? Plenty of people can relate.

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The boss apologized profusely. I know what I do matters (and thankfully, I don’t just work for his or anyone’s affirmation or approval). I know that I like and prefer jobs and roles in the background–at this stage in life anyways. I know that it is not the way other people have treated me, moved on, or held back there words that I may feel the way I do sometimes. But it is in those moments that I start to believe the lies that:

Who I am in this world–what I do or say–does not matter.

But it DOES. It matters who I choose to be, what I choose to do, and how I choose to live.

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It’s not about me. We’re in this together, right?

I could have brought words of truth to you, but instead I held back. I could tell you the things I wish someone would tell me sometimes. But instead I selfishly keep those words to myself. I could have reminded you of your beauty. I could have reminded you of how other people want to live a fuller life because of the way you live. I could have reminded you that you have the most contagious smile and to keep sharing it. I could just simply tell you, more often, that you are a good person, a good friend, and I am thankful to know you.

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I could remind you.

Instead, I [often] hold back. And, perhaps in turn, I forget those sorts of things about myself.

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It’s part of the golden rule, isn’t it? Treat others how you’d like to be treated.

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But I hold back until I’ve “figured it out.” If I’m going to see the Kingdom come in and around me, it’s not going to be because I “figured” myself out. It’s certainly not going to be because I held honest words in.

It’s going to be during and after the conversations you don’t want to have. It’s not going to happen once I’ve figured out my issues, because more will pop up. It’s going to be when I’m honest with people–those I’m close to and those I’m not–when I feel a certain way, whether it’s good or bad, whether I’ve figured it out on the inside or not.

I’m honest and an open book… But I’ll tell the whole world about my problem, my issue, or my area of hurt as long is it doesn’t directly involve them. We don’t want to hurt each other, right? Right. And you’ll remember that when you start telling that person that you felt hurt from… because maybe, maybe that wasn’t their intention.

We’ve got quite the imaginations. And they  could destroy us if they’re built on lies instead of truth.

I’m Not Shy Anymore (Or: Why I Find It Hard To Be Mysterious)

I think it is who I was and who I know I could be that is saving me. But it’s not who I am.

(Though it shouldn’t ever be who I am that is saving me… I know, I know it should always be Him.)

I depend on that person sometimes. I depend on the loving person I was trying to become all the while currently living a life not quite of love. I depend on the exercise I know I could be doing, but I’m not doing it. I rely on what I knew and what I could know. I depend on talk but no action.

I have this picture and this ideal person in my mind. I’m not trying to better myself now. I forget “little by little” and want “big, now.” Because the person in my head, even the person I was, seems unattainable these days.

I’m 21 and some days I feel like I’ve hit my prime. I mean, 2008 was a great year.

(I’m being dramatic… It’s part of who I am.)

I need to face it: THIS is who I am and what I’m doing. If I’m not satisfied with that, if that’s not what I want to be, then I need to change.

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I once had a pastor who during a sermon said, “God didn’t create people to be shy.”

I was a shy high schooler when he said that. It puts in your mind the idea that this part of you, this thing about your personality, wasn’t created by the God you worship. The God who created you didn’t mean to create that part of you.

There was a friend of mine who told me once that it’s good to be mysterious. “They like mysterious.” “They” being men, of course.

I wasn’t mysterious when she told me this. And so my confidence that had grown as I felt more and more like “me” was shot down a little when I was, once again, not something “they” like.

I once was shy, but according to someone’s words, I shouldn’t have been. I was probably more mysterious then though.

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I found a comfortability in who I was and what I looked like some years ago. I think that’s when I grew out of  my shyness (which could also be labeled “my fear of society being against me” or “the fear of every joke being on me.”) I had my “moments,” but I pushed through them. On a regular basis, I was reminding myself or being reminded of my worth. And that worth wasn’t based in friends or the glance of a boy. And those reminders weren’t just on Sundays.

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“WORTH. Girl, let me remind you of your worth! Your Dad is a king. KING! You know what that makes you…”

It may sound silly. Sure. But I often come back to that table outside of Coffee Cafe that night after all the shops had closed. Joel spoke such truth into my life throughout our friendship.

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For awhile now, it seems as though I’ve had my “moments” of being comfortable in who I am. For a little while, insecurity became who I was. I wasn’t believing it when I tried to remind myself of my worth. I didn’t believe people, if anyone was reminding me.

Some days I wish I could just hide things as well as most humans, it seems, can hide things. But only some days.

Many days, I’m still in the middle of those two, it seems. The moments of my days sometimes feel split down the middle by the Rachel who loved herself and others more than not, and the Rachel who shrivels up on the inside when she is reminded of the society we live in and their definition of worth, beauty, etc.

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I’m sure I’m not the only one who sometimes feels beneath the world and beyond anyone’s second glance. I hope I’m not (and yet wish I was) the only one.

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I wish I was mysterious some days. Other days I like the honest and open life I live. Plus, I’d rather be what feels right — and hiding things, not responding to questions, acting aloof — those things don’t usually feel right. Being honest, being open, saying hello to random people when we make eye contact… Those things feel right.

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Ah, but it’s all a journey. None of that stuff up there is finished. And, in all honestly, I’m sure the music I’m listening to and the mood I’m in has made some of this sound a little more on the down side of life than necessary. Oh, but it’s all real. Someone out there has felt it too.

There’s an Odd Sense of Peace in a Breakdown (Especially When Surrounded by 9 others)

I got a lot done this weekend. My housemate, Ginna, and I did some shopping on Saturday–dining room table and chairs, sink drying rack, light bulbs, tacos for man night. Sunday found more productivity as my other housemate, Doug, helped me move the giant desk from our landlords from our front room into my room. I now have a real desk in my room for the first time in my life.

This is exciting to me. While I was standing in a cute stationary shop in San Francisco a couple of months ago, I typed a little note into my phone:

“Have a desk or a sturdy stable, one with a view if possible. Write letters. Or just write.
Write thank you notes, etc.”

The desk is in front of a window. I see trees and our normal neighborhood street through the blinds. I love this.

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I ran point for operations volunteers last night. I was fine all day and all weekend, but something mentally switched when I got to church yesterday. I felt incapable and directionless. I knew what to do, but I wasn’t sure of what to do — and the sureness is what I needed. And so the volunteers did their job and they did it well. And I joined in a bit, I walked around checking on things, and mostly, I felt unnecessary for the night because I wasn’t sure of anything.

And it wasn’t just an unsure feeling about point.

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While plugging something in under my desk yesterday, I took a shortcut of some sort and didn’t quite situate my body properly. I did something to my neck and shoulders in that moment that carries on to today. I have a high pain tolerance, but that headache was beating me down. Maybe it was the headache, or maybe it was the unexpected realization that I have barely believed the prayers I’ve uttered in the past years, but I was holding back from crying the whole time Cole was talking.

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I remember all the people who prayed for my Uncle to be healed. I remember, for months, having my Uncle as a prayer request at school. I remember the way we all believed and I remember how absurd some people thought it. And I remember, vividly, his funeral.

And you see, as you may know, I remember the way for four years we all prayed for my Dad. I remember how my Mum always had that faith to believe that he would be healed (even if some days she was more down than the others) and I so remember how everyone around us thought we were all absurd. I remember the pastors who said he’d be healed and I remember all of the different people that were praying for him. But like my Uncle, my Dad died too.

One night in the parking lot of Coffee Cafe I decided I would really believe for his healing. I searched for Bible verses on healing and believing. But as the months passed, I lost the strength and the will to believe for much of anything.

Last night, it became apparent to me that I never fully recovered that strength or will to believe. At the very least, it has been lost again.

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God can defend himself and God can deal with the repercussions and the absurdity of whether or not our prayers for healing (or anything) are answered the way we hoped they would be answered. That idea alone struck something hidden in me. The need to let go of the past and to let go of those prayers that weren’t answered the way we hoped is something I decided to not fully address at some point. I know that in each situation, things happened the way they did for a reason. And I am okay with that.

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I forgave my Dad. But did I ever forgive God? Do I need to? Because I don’t know if I did. I embraced what happened–the way that part of my life helped shape me, gave me a story that could relate to people I once couldn’t relate to. But did I let go of the way those prayers for healing were not answered as so many of us hoped? No. I don’t think I did. And I think, to an extent, my prayers for years have been tainted with this unsureness–with a lack of faith that healing is possible. I believe the Lord provides, because He has provided for me. I believe the Lord will guide, because He has guided me. But do I believe that the Lord heals? I thought I did. I believe the stories I’ve heard of healing. But there’s a trace of doubt connected to it all because I haven’t let go of the different direction our prayers of healing for my Uncle and Dad went. There’s doubt because of the way our belief split the family further.

There’s doubt. There’s fear.

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I didn’t expect much from last night. I sat alone as far back as I could. I thought I would get a good cry in, but I didn’t think it would be in the middle of a circle of people. I didn’t want to breakdown with people, many of whom I didn’t know, surrounding me. But after I said, “I have a headache,” I could hardly get out “and I can’t let go of the past.” So I covered my face and they laid their hands on me and their prayers surrounded me. Some of them I didn’t even know…

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We need each other. We need the people we know and we need the people we don’t know.

As annoyed as I can get with humans sometimes, I need them.

God can sort out the absurdity of it all. And I’m sure that I sound crazy to some of you. I’m sure some of what I said doesn’t make sense. Well, some of it doesn’t make sense to me quite yet. Because when I think about it, it starts to sound crazy to me too. But He’s the only sureness I have. I’m sure, at least, that I’m not sure what’s next. Somehow, that’s comforting these days.

Tonight, despite the not so great 24 hours it’s been, I am also reminded of what a great 24 hours it has been. And what a great life this is. And I can only see his provision in the way I have heard from friends today, most of whom didn’t know the ins and outs of my life the past couple of days.

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There’s much to be said. I’ve said so much already. Let’s talk about it.

A Realization and Why I’m Thankful for Cars, Facebook, and USPS

I was sitting at my desk when the song came on my iPod and through my earbuds. “The funeral song,” I thought to myself — like I do nearly everytime it comes on. I love the song though and I’ve gotten in the habit of skipping to the end, especially when I think of it as the “funeral song.” I like to skip to the end bit that doesn’t bring me back to my father’s funeral. The end bit that doesn’t make me think of the people who left earth and are now in the place where there is “no weeping, no hurt or pain, no suffering…” I try to skip the part where he sings “in His arms of love” because those words appear at the end of Dad’s memorial video. So I go to the end, the last two minutes or so and I listen as he sings over and over:

Your kingdom come, Your will be done here on Earth as it is in heaven.
Your kingdom come, Your will be done here on Earth as it is in heaven.
Your kingdom come…

When I was sitting at my desk, surrounded by an office of other people sitting at their desks, I thought I could listen to the song. I thought, “the funeral song,” but I also thought, “I’ll be fine.” Then my throat tightened and I held my lips together and pushed them to one side to mask the awkward way they scrunch when I cry. I skipped to the end then… But again, my throat tightened and my eyes watered.

It was as though I suddenly realized: Dad is gone forever.

What a strange thing — almost ten months later and I think that on an afternoon at work.

Unlike so many of my friends who are moving or have moved, I can’t call him or send him text messages or write him letters. I couldn’t do those things for years, really. He didn’t move — he died.

If nothing else (except there’s been a lot else, actually), this past year has reminded me to keep my life open — to pour into those around me, allow them to poor into me, and then support them and let them go when the time comes.

Seasons. Seasons. Seasons.

I joined a small group recently, well, last night. That choice was heavily influenced by the words of a friend who hasn’t lived here in a year and yet, the two months or so I got to know him while he lived here were enough to carry us through to here and now. He didn’t tell me to do something. He didn’t force me to join a small group. Small groups never came up. He simply asked me a question. And I found a way to come up with an answer.

I’m thankful for how that works. People come in and out of our lives. All of us go through it. I’m thankful for the bond between some people that you share and that doesn’t quite disappear. Sure, it may never be the same. But you can find yourself in a room with them and it feels like home.

I’m thankful for the people — for Casey, Aaron, Ben, Boyd — who moved in these past few weeks. And I’m thankful for some other people — Bryan, Linsey, Kelsey, Joel — who have moved within these last few years. Maybe it’s part of growing up that you realize you have the power to stay friends with these people even when they move away. It’s a responsibility, it’s work — but it’s a beautiful chance. We don’t have to say goodbye and we don’t have to give up what we can be to each other now and in the future. Isn’t that wonderful?

I guess, I’m also thankful for cars, planes, Facebook, Skype, the United States Postal Service, and mobile phones.

I Screamed for Everything and for Nothing

I finally screamed. I was in the car after work about to get on the interstate for another traffic filled ride home. I screamed for everything and for nothing. It would be a wordless and meaningless sound to anyone if they heard it. But I heard the frustration of feeling like I’m ever so slowly getting the hang of a job in a field I hadn’t prepared for. The sounds coming from my barely open mouth mirrored the present sadness over the end of a season. Still flecks of excitement over the next fought their way into the mix. Because, if I’m honest, I am excited for what’s next — for all of us. Some of us are more sure than others, but there’s something new coming for each of us no matter if we can or can’t see it right now. There was realization in there too. The realization that it had been nine months. And soon enough, it will have been a year since he died.

I think about life these days and how I never would have been able to picture myself like this a year ago or even a few months ago. I am thankful that I can’t see too far into the future because it would overwhelm me and the present does that enough.

I am trying to not wait for what’s next and instead start now. But it’s hard living at home for a month. It’s hard to care about keeping this room organized because I know I’ll be moving within two weeks. It’s hard to put a lot of effort into a routine when it will change soon. Being at home feels like a vacation. The end of this home vacation will end around September first and I will find myself in another house, setting up another home, with another group of people and I am looking forward to it. Oh, I am looking forward to it all.

On another note, I’ve been trying to become a morning person. It hasn’t gone too well, but there’s been effort. Whether it’s working out or just waking up early enough to give myself time to enjoy breakfast and read some. I’m just trying to get a good start to the day. Any tips?

Questioning Living Out Questions And How Writing Saves My Life

Tonight I kept thinking, “I just want one thing to feel better than the other.”

These past few weeks have been full of questioning: Where do I go now that undergrad is finished? Do I stay? Do I want to leave only because it’s “cool” to leave? Do I want to stay because it’s easy? Do I want to go because somedays I feel like I’m never going to meet anyone in Orlando? Do I want to stay because it’s stable? Do I want to leave because the majority of my friends will be gone soon?

After a week of thinking, praying, and talking, I made one decision. I stuck with it. Followed through. And now I find myself living in DeLand in the home I grew up in. The last time I lived in that house, my father was in a hospital bed in the living room. Now the hospital bed is gone. His body has been turned to ashes and placed in a family vault on the tiny island where I last went when Dad still walked.

What a three years it has been since I lived at home. I’m embracing my hometown more than I ever did growing up and living there not by choice. I hope that I can embrace friendships while I’m there. I hope that I can be of some encouragement or be encouraged by people whose lives I have been so distanced from, despite never being that far away physically.

I left home on Friday after training all day on Thursday for a full time job I’ll start the following Monday after I return. I left home on Friday knowing I would return home in a week, start a full time job soon thereafter, look for a place to live with Doug, buy a car, pay off loans, and see what happened next. I still had those feelings of wanting to leave, but I thought they would be quenched after a little bit of travel.

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Here I am, sitting on the couch at my cousin’s house in Denver, questioning everything again. I’ve thought through it all so many times these past days and weeks. I’m sick of questioning and wondering. I want to just be sure and okay with the decisions I’ve made. And I am… But then I think about all of the other options. I know this feeling will pass. But when will it return? Will it be in a year when my lease is up? WIll it be in a few months? Will it be in a few days?

I don’t want to live a life questioning what else I could be doing. I want to live out those questions. Perhaps I am already doing that. Is staying in Orlando living out questions too? Is trying out a full time office job living out a question? Is living with only one roommate for the first time in 2 years living out a question? Yes.

YES.

If I was leaving Orlando — would I simply be having recurring desires of wanting to stay? Would I simply be wondering “What if I stayed?” rather than “What if I leave?”

Yes.

And so I am living out some questions. But in doing so, I leave other questions to be lived out another time. In choosing these questions, I have to, for now anyways, let go of the other questions.

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I’ve met some interesting people on this trip. There were entertaining conversations and things to learn at The Tipsy Pig in San Francisco. There have been introductory conversations and some that went further with my cousin’s friends at Lime in Denver. There have been stories made up and questions asked on the side of the road while waiting for a car to cool down.

The one thing I had to remind myself of while washing my face and brushing my teeth — the nightly routine that won’t change wherever I am — is that we’re all at different places. Perhaps that is why I am questioning everything again.

I’ve talked to people who have and continue to travel all over the world. People who are starting their own business and are planning on living in other countries for a bit while running that business. People who traveled around the country for their job for two years. People who moved to a new city after college. People who are going to grad school. People who are writing more than I am.

But as I splashed my face more times than necessary in the bathroom tonight, I remembered (once again) that there are always going to be people ahead of me and there are always going to be people behind me. The same goes for you. But those people ahead of us are not there to make us feel bad about the place we are in. And those people behind us are certainly not there to make us feel better about where we are in life. The people ahead of us should inspire us. We need to learn from them because chances are they know something we don’t know yet. They’ve asked questions and lived some questions out that we haven’t even thought of. Surely, they have lived a story we’ve never heard before. And, believe it or not, those people behind us can teach us as well. They’ve experienced things foreign to us. But we can also inspire them. We can encourage them in the life they’re living.

Once again I am reminded how much we need each other. I need to be reminded — we need to be reminded of these sorts of things often.

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I haven’t written in awhile. I was beginning to feel guilty. I tried. I’d try to write something publishable, but I didn’t like what was coming out, first draft or not. I’ve been around my cousin for these past few days and so often when she introduces me to people she tells them I’m a writer. And I so often want to warn them that I’m not a full time writer, or that I’ve never been published, or that I’m probably not very good. I feel bad that perhaps they are being told a lie. But there’s something significant about what Melissa has been doing that I am only now realizing. She is affirming something in me. She is calling it into being, in a way, whether or not that was her intention. I haven’t written much lately, but that doesn’t mean I am not or cannot be a writer. She’s ahead of me and she’s pushing me forward. She’s encouraging me in the life I’m living. And she’s encouraging me simply by the way she lives.

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And so I question. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I write to myself. I’ve been thinking about all of this for weeks — and a lot of it in the past few hours. But sitting down and typing out my thoughts brought me to a conclusion that I may not have been able to reach otherwise. Sometimes the things we love to do save our lives. Tonight, writing saved my sanity.

The Beginning of Something – Written While A Photo Was Being Taken

taken by Doug Jackson

There once was a girl who spent all of her time in the perfect cafe on the corner. There she shared in her loneliness with all of the other regulars. Their eyes showed their emptiness though they were all so much together.

Day after day their eyes met each other with the same loneliness. Silence was normal. Head nods got them by.

*

There once was a man who moved to a town with the perfect cafe on the corner. He was alone in a new city but he was no lonely soul.

His eyes were the first to meet hers with fullness and she gasped.

“Hello,” he said.

The silence the regulars shared between one another was broken by the man who loved himself and who tried loving others.

From November

I wrote this the day after he passed. I sat at a bench in front of my favorite lake in Maitland and wrote it on November 13. My absolutely wonderful cousin read it for me at the service.

I haven’t liked this day in years, and today is no different. Here’s to all the others, all the many people who unfortunately have lost there fathers. However recent or long ago, it’s okay to be a little bit sad today and it’s okay to be totally fine.

Cheers, Dad:

When I think of you, I don’t want to remember these past four or so years. When I think of you, I want to remember when I learned how to use a telephone and I’d call you at work to say “hi” and “I love you”. I want to remember the Saturday nights of wings and fries and British comedies. How you’d laugh at Hyacinth and Mr. Peacock, your whole belly shaking to the rhythm of your laugh. I want to rememebr all of the soccer games. The looney tunes and ice cream after dinner.

I remember you tucking me in when Sarah and I still shared a room. And the good trips to Barbados. When we stayed near the Crane and you’d walk there barefooted and easily get down the rocks that led to our favorite beach. You and Sarah bodysurfed, but I balled up in the beginning and gave up. I remember visiting Uncle Steven and the way he made you and the rest of us laugh and laugh. I remember when I couldn’t stop crying at Uncle Hugo’s funeral and you put your hand on my knee and told me it’d be okay. I remember going to your office before the Christmas parade and playing solitaire and eating candy I found in your desk.

I could remember these past four years — the ups, the downs, the anger, sadness, bitterness, confusion… But it doesn’t matter anymore. So I’ll remember you being you, my father, calling me “rabbit” or “rab” or “bit”. I’ll remember you alone, not the you accompanied by the illness. Here’s to the good…