Dad died three years ago yesterday. That’s more than a thousand days ago.
I could tell you I think about him a thousand times a day, but that would be a lie. In the beginning, maybe. But now, somedays I don’t think about him much at all. Maybe that’s because I don’t need to. My life is full and happy, even without him here, in part because he was here. I’m okay without him, because he helped make it so. I don’t think about him all the time, but I have 30+ years of him squirrelled away for the winter.
He does cross my mind at one particular time every day: when I’m tucking Max into bed. We read a storybook, turn out the light, and say “goodnight, Poppy Jim up in the sky.” After this sign-off, Max likes to remind me, quite matter of factly: “YEAH, POPPY JIM DIED. HE IS KILLED.” And, without fail, he goes on to mention that Spook and Lacey – my husband’s childhood pooches – are also dead. “THEY IS KILLED TOO.” To him, there’s no difference. Dead dad, dead dog, dead mouse, dead spider… In some ways he is exactly right. Death is a fly in a web, a crisp leaf in your hand, and a father in a casket. Everything goes to sleep, eventually. There’s no getting out alive.
Bedtime seems like a good time to remind Max of dad, with Max going to sleep and dad enjoying a dirt nap like it’s nobody’s business. Sorry – I’m not much of a believer. Dad dying when Max was just nine months old was not part of some great divine plan. It did not happen for a reason. It happened because our bodies are full of cells and sometimes abnormal ones grow uncontrollably and they don’t give a sweet shit about the terrible fucken timing.
But sometimes when Max drifts off to sleep after our usual cuddle, I like to think another comforting arm takes the place of mine. I imagine the two of them together, enjoying an ice cream cone somewhere on the outskirts of Dreamland, right where the clouds end and the Great Beyond begins. No talking, just licking. Licking and smiling and knowing. “You’re Poppy Jim,” Max says with his eyes. “And you’re pop’s boy,” dad winks. “And ice cream is a wonderful thing.” They both nod in agreement. And they’re not strangers anymore.
I made this slideshow. Sorry if it puts you to sleep.
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Mark
January 22, 2013 at 10:55 pm (5 years ago)This is one of the most beautiful meditations on death I ever read. I’m not a parent and haven’t lost a parent yet, but there’s something universal here. I can’t put my finger on it, and don’t want to. Maybe the ice cream. My grandfather loved ice cream and we often shared some. Thanks!
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:54 pm (5 years ago)Thanks for the note, Mark. Hope all is well with you. I hear you’re rocking it. That deserves ice cream. 🙂
Debjani
January 22, 2013 at 11:00 pm (5 years ago)They are made of each other – Max is here because of his Poppy, and his Poppy had to be there because Max had to happen.
I love your writing.
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:55 pm (5 years ago)Thank you so much. I like your take on it.
Emilee
January 22, 2013 at 11:13 pm (5 years ago)We recently lost our kids Poppa and I have to say that while its still early days for us and we think of him so much all the time I do also feel like when they go off to sleep they see him in their dreams… our boy (Max also) was about 10 months when Poppa was killed in an accident but our girl was almost 4 and she often also says “Poppa is just dead”. Funny how kids just look at it as here or not here…
Another lovely post!
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:53 pm (5 years ago)Thank you, and so sorry for your loss. My Max sometimes says, “Poppy Jim died. But he’ll be here next year, right?” Crazy kid.
Barbara Colbourne
January 22, 2013 at 11:38 pm (5 years ago)Beautiful story, really enjoyed. Did not fall asleep watching the slide show, lol, loved. Actually rewound to see Jim one more time. He was a great Dad and I’m sure a wonderful Pop.
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:27 pm (5 years ago)He was a good pop to Max, however brief the time. My brother’s boys, Jack and Sam, got to enjoy him for much longer. They remember him fondly.
Emily
January 22, 2013 at 11:40 pm (5 years ago)You are an amazing writer. A lovely combination of humour and sentiment. You crack me up and bring me to tears in one piece of writing. Let’s just say I’m a fan 🙂
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:23 pm (5 years ago)Thank you, Emily. xo
Ethel Anthony
January 23, 2013 at 1:05 am (5 years ago)Viki—-
You’ve done it again. I just started to read this to Joe . Had to pause several times before i had it all read .I was just as sad yesterday as I was three years ago.Has the day went by I got a little better, and took out some of the letters he wrote me over the years. Keep writing & God bless .
Mother Blogger
January 23, 2013 at 3:22 pm (5 years ago)I am so thankful that dad had such wonderful sisters like you and Aunt Ivy. You remind me of him every day.
Diana
January 26, 2013 at 8:49 pm (5 years ago)That was beautiful! You make me laugh and you make me cry….can’t wait for the book! (From the mother of another ginger and yes, I am human…today anyways)
Mother Blogger
January 28, 2013 at 8:14 pm (5 years ago)Ha ha. You crack me up, Diana.
Danielle
January 28, 2013 at 11:25 pm (5 years ago)Love this! I try to give my daughter some of her “Poppy Jim” every night too…although one night in the same prayer she said “God bless Poppy Jim, God bless Aunt Fran, Aunt Linda, playgroup and God Bless Wal-Mart”….all the important things!
Mother Blogger
January 29, 2013 at 3:51 pm (5 years ago)That just made me day.