I was standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona in the early Saturday afternoon sun when I turned my phone back on for the first time in three days. I had an onslaught of messages appear saying things like, "Call me asap, this is kind of important"", "Do you know?", "Are you ok?".
My heart sank a little when I called my twin sister and she used the soft-spoken something-bad-has-happened voice when she answered the phone.
"I have to tell you something that's sad, but you may be relieved, I don't know." she said. "Are you sitting down?" I walked to the nearest bench and sat down. "I'm sitting." I said, "So what is it?"
"Lily's dad died of a drug overdose yesterday." she said.
"Ha!" was the first thing to come out of my mouth while I could still breathe - my family has a tendency to use humor to deal with intense or emotional situations, but I was drawing a blank.
" I- mean," I managed to gasp, "I always- expected it- but- I- didn't- expect- it."
I half-laughed, half-cried for a minute before the totality of the situation hit me.
"Does Lily know yet?"
"No, she doesn't know."
I would be the one to tell her. I cried from Winslow, Arizona all the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was sad and angry. As if her little heart didn't ache enough that he was never there, it would break to know that he never would be. I'd always held out hope that one day he would redeem himself in her lovely green eyes, that maybe one day he would apologize to her and try to be some semblance of the father he never let himself be before. That glimmer of hope is gone now.
Two days later I would do one of the most difficult things I have ever done as a mother. Forget cleaning up vomit, or all the poop that escaped the diaper on the McDonald's slide, and the emergency room visit that lead to her spending a week in the hospital. I would look into her eyes, the green ones she got from him not me, and I would tell her in the softest, most loving voice I could muster that her father died.
She cried, and she got angry. We collected the photos of him from albums and boxes I had managed to save over the years for her to look at. I told her the good stories I could remember, and left the bad ones to die with him.
"You know Mom," she said, "I'm sad that he's gone, but I didn't really know him."
"I know." I said, "I'm so sorry, Booboo."
"Mom, I can't remember his name." she said as her lovely green eyes welled up with a new batch of tears.
I told her, and together we cried.
My heart sank a little when I called my twin sister and she used the soft-spoken something-bad-has-happened voice when she answered the phone.
"I have to tell you something that's sad, but you may be relieved, I don't know." she said. "Are you sitting down?" I walked to the nearest bench and sat down. "I'm sitting." I said, "So what is it?"
"Lily's dad died of a drug overdose yesterday." she said.
"Ha!" was the first thing to come out of my mouth while I could still breathe - my family has a tendency to use humor to deal with intense or emotional situations, but I was drawing a blank.
" I- mean," I managed to gasp, "I always- expected it- but- I- didn't- expect- it."
I half-laughed, half-cried for a minute before the totality of the situation hit me.
"Does Lily know yet?"
"No, she doesn't know."
I would be the one to tell her. I cried from Winslow, Arizona all the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was sad and angry. As if her little heart didn't ache enough that he was never there, it would break to know that he never would be. I'd always held out hope that one day he would redeem himself in her lovely green eyes, that maybe one day he would apologize to her and try to be some semblance of the father he never let himself be before. That glimmer of hope is gone now.
Two days later I would do one of the most difficult things I have ever done as a mother. Forget cleaning up vomit, or all the poop that escaped the diaper on the McDonald's slide, and the emergency room visit that lead to her spending a week in the hospital. I would look into her eyes, the green ones she got from him not me, and I would tell her in the softest, most loving voice I could muster that her father died.
She cried, and she got angry. We collected the photos of him from albums and boxes I had managed to save over the years for her to look at. I told her the good stories I could remember, and left the bad ones to die with him.
"You know Mom," she said, "I'm sad that he's gone, but I didn't really know him."
"I know." I said, "I'm so sorry, Booboo."
"Mom, I can't remember his name." she said as her lovely green eyes welled up with a new batch of tears.
I told her, and together we cried.
