Two Years

Dear Dad,

It’s been two years since you died. How am I still not okay with this? How is part of my brain still expecting you to come home? How is it that I still sometimes randomly catch myself crying when I think of you? I can’t believe it has been two full years. Most days it doesn’t feel that long. The time has passed in a blur, a string of events that seem to have occurred in another dimension. Maybe it’s the brain fog that hasn’t dissipated. Or the fact that there was no closure at the time. You went into the hospital and then disappeared. I wonder, will a part of me always be stuck in April of 2020? Will some remote morsel of my mind always linger in the year you left us? There was so much we had planned, so much that got canceled, is that why I haven’t completely been able to move on. Will some part of me always be waiting for our trip to Disney, our family reunion, a discussion about Patagonia? Will I ever stop wishing I could turn back time and spend just one more hour with you?

I went to the beach today. It seemed the only fitting place to go. Some people go to the cemetery to visit the dead, I went to the ocean. The beach always made you happy, you loved the water. Since it was your favorite place, I figured if you were anywhere, you’d be there. It was a gorgeous day—according to my car it hit 89 degree—and I wasn’t exactly prepared for summer. I neglected to bring sunscreen and the hat I wore didn’t cover my ears. So the tips of my ears are crispy from the sun and my arms and calves are bright red. It’s been years since I burned. 

In all the time I’ve lived in New Jersey, I never went to Sandy Hook. I decided to go there today. I parked near the lighthouse. Did you know it’s the oldest operating one in America? It dates back to colonial days—1764 to be exact. But other than that, there isn’t anything special about it. After awhile, they kind of all start to look alike. The colors change—this one was red and white—but that’s about it.

From the lighthouse, I walked to the over to North Beach. The sun was hot and I could feel my skin scotching as I headed down to the water. When I got there, a horseshoe crab greeted me. I was surprised to see it moving. Usually, I just see the shells of dead crabs on the sand. But seeing one that was alive reminded me of my childhood and all the hours we spent at the beach together.  We used to see horseshoe crabs all the time. Mom said the crab was a sign that you were walking next to me. Were you?

As I walked along the shore, the smell of the salty air made me miss both you and Mattituck. While I walked, I examined the shells, picking up a few—those that were intact or stood out from the others—and putting them in my pockets. Being at the beach always makes me feel better, less sad or depressed. Although, I still cried. After two years, my tears have yet to dry up. 

Anyway, I was so engrossed in the shells that I was pretty oblivious to everything else. I wasn’t really paying too much attention to anything other than the waves crashing against the shore. Then suddenly, realizing there were other people around, I looked up and was startled to realize that I was the only one wearing clothes. I had no idea there was a nudist beach in New Jersey. I thought that might have been something Kati, a native of this state, might have mentioned, but she didn’t. And so I felt extremely self conscious as I wove my way through the naked sunbathers at Gunnison Beach and up to the parking lot.

Before leaving Sandy Hook, I did an Adventure Lab cache. It was easy and pleasant since there were so few people around. After leaving the beach, I drove back over the bridge and stopped at Hartshorne Woods Park. There were five traditional caches I wanted to get. Since it was a weekday, there were few people out which made for a quiet and peaceful hike. I found each of the caches easily, but since I was wearing shorts the bramble bushes sliced up my legs—doubly painful considering my skin was already on fire from the sunburn.

I spoke to Mom on the way home. She went grocery shopping for Easter. She was happy to have found a leg of lamb. The shelves in the supermarket have been relatedly bare so she had been worried that she might not find one. Tomorrow is Good Friday but no one is looking forward to Easter, not even G3. Good Friday always meant heading out to Mattituck. Except for the year you were dying, this will be G3’s first Easter morning in New Jersey. Hunting eggs won’t be the same with out you—it wasn’t last year. I don’t really want to hide eggs here. It feels wrong. I know all the places the eggs are supposed to be hidden in Mattituck. After Easter breakfast—even that won’t be the same without bunny breads—we will visit Mom in Queens. It’s hard to believe that what used to be my favorite holiday is now the one I most wish I could ignore. 

I miss you!

4-6-21

Shortly after Dad died, I started taking pictures of empty benches. Initially, they were in places that reminded me of Dad, places that he should still have been visiting with me. Each bench represented countless memories, so many wonderful experiences we shared together. But then my family and I took a road trip, and my photography project morphed. Whenever I came across an empty bench in even a semi-scenic place I took a picture. Those benches came to represent all the conversations I’d never have. The moments I desperately wanted to share with Dad, but no longer could. I wanted to tell him about our swim in Lake Huron when it was only 59 degrees, about my son’s excitement when we went kayaking on Lake Superior, and even about our random detour to Indianapolis to see Benjamin Harrison’s house. There were so many adventures, so many stories and I wanted to reach for the phone every damn time. 

When we got home, the adventure ended, but not the stories. And so I’m still taking pictures of empty benches, one for each story I’ll never get to share. Each time, my son rolls his eyes. He thinks I’m crazy. I’m his lunatic mother who runs around with a camera looped around my neck taking pictures of things no one cares about. No one except me.

Shortly after the new year, my project morphed again. This time, I started adding text to my pictures. Instead of keeping the stories  — the ones I couldn’t tell Dad — bottled up, I began writing him letters. Letters he’d never read, but somehow the pictures seemed more meaningful when paired with words. Still, my son makes fun of me, “Writing a letter to a dead person seems stupid” And so, instead of arguing with him, I suggested that maybe he’d like to participate. Take a picture of an empty bench or chair and write a letter to his grandfather. At first he grumbled, “Wherever he is now he sees everything anyway. Why write a letter?” But I kept taking pictures and writing and soon he wanted to be part of it.

On Easter, he took his Easter basket to the beach for a photoshoot. I guess that was his way of trying to be a little closer to his grandfather on such a sad day.

Here is his Empty Bench letter (Or you can see it on the Conversations on the Empty Bench website — https://conversationsontheemptybench.wordpress.com/2021/04/05/grandpa/):

Dear Grandpa,

I really miss you. I miss going to Mets’ games and going to get McDonalds together. 

I got my Arrow of Light last month for Cub Scouts. It was very exhilarating, happy, and sad when I bridged over to Boy Scouts. This was happy because it felt like a big accomplishment and sad because I had moved on. On every arrow, you get stripes of different color tape depending on the electives you did. The pack master almost ran out of room on my arrow because I had the most electives. The arrow hangs above my bed, and if I become famous, it will one day be in a museum.  

Last year, you texted me,” I will be there in spirit,” when you could not come to a taekwondo tournament. It really helped me this year. I know you are still with me in spirit. I am number one in the world in my age group with the weapons form! I have competed in every virtual tournament this season. I have decided that the oh-sung-do (the one handed sword) is the best weapon for me. I beat my arch nemesis T.J. Knox in traditional forms. He is my nemesis because he won first place in almost every tournament. Also in taekwondo, Mama got her black belt and mommy began doing classes again. I have now been a black belt for almost two years. In the autumn, I will test for second degree.  

Mama is actually interested in Marvel movies. She watched every movie and show with me. WandaVision was great, but Mama cried at the end because Vision’s and Wanda’s children died/disappeared. I would have preferred watching it with you because it would have been more fun. There is another Thor movie, a Black Widow movie, and another Spider Man movie coming out. There will also be another Iron Man movie. This Friday, The Falcon and the Winter solider is coming out on Disney Plus.

We have moved to a small town called Middlesex. I have my own room. I am going to get my own desk. I am able to set up the telescope you bought me to look at the night sky.  I bought a beanbag chair and a nest chair with my own money. They are really comfy. We are having company on Sunday. In the summer, we might be able to have barbecues. My moms allow me to bike around the town by myself. Since I have $78, I can go to Ritas, Seven Eleven, D&D, and Wendys on my own. I am now walking distance from my school. This means, next year, I can ride my bike or my skate board, or I could walk. 

My moms got me a bow and arrows for Christmas. Don’t worry, I have not shot my eye out. Every Friday, Mama and I go to Taco Bell to eat then we go to the archery range to shoot. 

Last summer, we went to all of the Great Lakes. My favorite was Lake Superior. Mommy got obsessed with the rocks there due to the smooth round edges and the bright colors.  

This year, Mama is homeschooling me. I have read The Hobbit, Born a Crime,  A Christmas Carol, and Treasure Island. The book we are now reading is Hunger Games. It was written by a woman, so according to you, it might be too descriptive. I have also written a short story called “The Wooden Horse.” I got the idea from one of Uncle Gary’s wooden horses. I have just finished a second short story called “A Gush of Wind and a Howl.” It is about a golden retriever named Apollo. He is based on Fireball. Emma and Lily, Uncle Gary’s dogs, are in it. 

LOVE,

G III

Day 385

Last night was awful. I hardly slept. Every time I drifted off to sleep I saw Dad’s face pressed against the window of the back door. The handle would rattle, but he couldn’t get inside. I’d rush to the door, eager to let him in, but each time I woke up before I could reach the lock. 

I have completed a full year of holidays without Dad, and this last one was the saddest — only because previously it had been the best. Technically, last Easter was my first without Dad, but he wasn’t dead yet. We were clinging to hope as one might cling to a life boat, but our boat sank. Mom really had a rough day. She walked with shoulders slumped and heavy steps as if the weight of missing Dad was simply too much to carry. It was pressing her into the ground.

Yesterday, Mom, my son, and I drove out to Greenport. I had hoped a day out would be fun for all of us, but Mom was sad the whole time we were there. We walked through the motions, doing what we so frequently did the day before Easter, but without Dad there was no joy. However, my son was happy to get a few more rubber duckies to add to his collection. Mom offered to take us out to a restaurant we often ate at with Dad. It has seating outdoors right on the water, so depending on the crowd, I might have felt okay eating there. But they were still closed for the winter season. Perhaps it was better. Eating fried clams without Dad would have only made us feel worse. 

In the late afternoon, my spouse arrived to spend Easter with us. She made Mom happy by fixing the toilet which had been broken for months. Mom was relieved that it was an easy fix and would avoid her having to call a plumber.  Upon arrival, my spouse was exhausted from another week of teaching school via a hybrid model. Anyone who thinks teachers have been on vacation during the pandemic doesn’t have a clue. Cases in her school are increasing. Almost daily letters get sent home to parents advising them of new cases. Apparently, school sports aren’t exactly safe. If they were, there would be less cases. My spouse, however, will get to teach from home the week after Spring Break. Why it’s only a week doesn’t exactly make sense. Students will travel, they will come home infected, and then they will return to school and infect others. It seems to me that they should be virtual for at least two weeks, but alas, parents wouldn’t tolerate it. They need their babysitters.

My son was cranky last night. Everything seemed to irritate him. When I asked him what was bothering him he told me he wanted everything to be perfect this year because it would be his last Easter in Mattituck. But he felt like nothing would be quite the way he wanted it to be. Not surprising. How could anything be perfect without his grandfather here?

After ten Easters in this tiny house, my son finally learned all the places I hide the eggs. His hunt took him less than four minutes — he timed it. Except for the one egg I did hide in a slightly different place — that one took him a little longer to locate. My son’s favorite part of Easter morning is searching for the presents we hide outside. It’s a tradition Mom and Dad started years ago, one my son was very adamant we continue this year. Mom wraps the presents. My spouse writes out clues as to where my son can find them. Then I hide them around the yard — by the shed, in the barbecue, by the cars, in the garden — and my son follows the clues until he finds them. I mean, he doesn’t really need the clues. We recycle the hiding places year after year, but the clues are tradition and my son wouldn’t have it any other way. Mom also puts money in plastic eggs — money my son can use to buy souvenirs when we go on our summer vacation — which I also hide around the property. He had to circle the house at least four times before he found them all.

During breakfast, I put out the bunny bread and crumb cake and cut slices for everyone since Dad wasn’t hear to do it. The egg smashing contest wasn’t the same without Dad, who almost always won. However, I must have been channeling his energy because I did nearly as well as he used to do. After breakfast, we took a walk in the local nature preserve. Mom couldn’t go far. Her legs were not good on the uneven terrain, and as I said early, her footsteps were too heavy, heart too sad.

Back at the house my son wanted to play a game. So while we played, I once again I took on Dad’s role and got everyone drinks and prepped the appetizers — both of which were always Dad’s favorite part of a holiday meal. But even the alcohol had no taste. It was another day of going through the motions, trying to make my son happy when all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry, which I did while mashing the potatoes because once again that’s Dad’s job.

My spouse left after dinner. She doesn’t like it out here and never stays long. But at least she was here for a little while on the holiday. 

Tomorrow we go home so that we can take our son on a brief spring break trip — a change of scenery that we both desperately need.

Day 383

When my son was little — four or five — I was telling him about my grandfather (my mother’s father) and I told him that Poppy was the best cook. My son got mad. He wrinkled his brow and scolded me, “You’re wrong, my grandfather is the best cook.” I countered, “Nope, my grandfather definitely cooked better.” And for a good five minutes, we went back and forth arguing as to whose grandfather was the best cook. At the time, my grandfather had been dead for twenty-five years, but my father was very much alive. Thinking back on that debate today made me sad, because now my son’s grandfather is also dead. 

I loved my dad, but I’m objective enough to still claim that my grandfather’s cooking was without a doubt better. To this day, I do not like going out to eat at Italian restaurants because the food is always disappointing. I’ve never eaten Italian food — the exception being when I was in Italy — that could compare to my grandfather’s cooking. I still miss it. But my son is also right. When it comes to breakfast food, my Dad was the best. His egg sandwiches were delicious. I refuse to eat waffles anywhere but home because no one ever makes them as good as Daddy did. And then there’s the crumb cake — which is entirely what my son was basing his judgement on all those years ago. 

Today (our first day of spring break) in memory of our grandfathers, we baked. First, the three of us — Mom, my son, and I — made pizza rustica in remembrance of my grandfather. He used to make it during lent — though earlier in the season and I have vague memories of him bringing it over to house. It’s one of my favorite dishes. And whenever I eat it, I think of him, and miss the smell of his kitchen. My son had fun rolling out the dough, though the dough was not cooperative. It kept pulling apart until we gave up and patched it together on the pie. It may not have looked pretty, but it tastes amazing.

After we put the pizza in the oven, we left it with Mom and my son and I went to the beach for a short walk. It was windy, cold, and raw and even though we bundled up, it didn’t take long before our fingers were frozen. Usually it rains on Good Friday, but not this year. However, the sky was gray and it felt rather dreary, but that may have been more my mood than the weather.

Back at home, my son and I made a crumb cake in remembrance of my son’s grandfather. Last year, when Dad should have been home making the cake for us, he lay dying in a hospital. But my son enjoys continuing the tradition of crumb cake for the holidays. Maybe someday, the cake and the memories will make me smile. Now, I’m just an emotional mess. 

Speaking of crumb cake, an essay of mine titled “Crumb Cake” will be published later this spring in a British zine. The essay — as all my writing lately — is a tribute to Dad. After accepting it, the publisher asked me to participate in an online live launch of the issue. I’m looking forward to it, though I’m not quite sure I’ll be able to get through the reading without crying. 

Another piece about Dad, titled “Lent,” has also been accepted for publication by a journal that rejected a different essay last year. But considering the journal is supported by NYU — and I did graduate from there, twice — I really wanted to land an essay with them, so I submitted again. 

I’ll post the links when the issues are live. Of course, not everything gets accepted and as if to prove it, a third essay was rejected (today) by an anthology that called for the worst experiences in 2020. I have to wonder, what were they looking for? If death isn’t the worst, what is? This is the second time I’ve been rejected by calls that specifically asked for pieces addressing the horrors of last year. Maybe they were just inundated with death and got bored of it quickly.

This entire week has been challenging. Mom has been overrun with emotion. She’s been really depressed which is completely understandable. (I haven’t been much better — so no judgement there.) She has reached a point where she watches televisions all day, from the moment she wakes up until she falls asleep. I guess she is trying to keep memories at a distance. The more she watches, the less she has to think. And she’s been talking about selling the house. Her next door neighbor spoke to her a couple of days ago saying that he wanted to buy it. It would be a lovely piece of property to rent. I love this house because there are so many memories encased in the walls. He wants it for an investment. I wanted to cry. 

This was going to be an impossible holiday, but Mom making plans to sell the house is making it even harder. As if Dad dying during my favorite season wasn’t bad enough. It’s like I’m losing him again, or rather, I’m being reminded of all we have lost because he is no longer here.

Day 378

Friday, I woke up so dizzy and nauseous I couldn’t even stand up. I almost never miss my morning workout, but I simply could not get out of bed. When I finally forced myself up to go to the bathroom, I threw up. My head felt like it had been used in a soccer match. The pounding was unbearable. I hadn’t been that sick since I had COVID, and since I was experiencing some of the same symptoms, I was worried. The last thing I wanted was another bout with the virus, especially after we have been so damn careful. However, despite my concerns, I also figured it was more likely that my emotional state was manifesting itself in a physical manner. March 26 — the day I couldn’t get out of bed — was the one year anniversary of the day I knew for certain Dad was really ill. The day his voice wasn’t his and I feared something awful. The day I begged him to let me take him to the hospital and he refused. Emotionally, the last several weeks have been difficult. If I weren’t homeschooling my son, I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all. And the added stress of obnoxious and rude neighbors and other selfish unkind people I’ve had to deal with didn’t help.

My spouse offered to stay home. But our son is old enough that he can operate at least semi-independently. He can boil water and use the toaster oven unsupervised — but only when we are somewhere in the house. As for school, since we have finished the standard curriculum and are operating now mostly on an independent study model, he didn’t need me hovering. He is revising two writing pieces — one for social studies and one for English class. Since I had commented extensively on both drafts, he was able to work on the revisions by himself. When he had questions, he knew where to find me — in bed, trying to ignore the sun coming through my windows. For reading, he sat next to me and we discussed the latest chapter in Hunger Games. As for math, he only needed to complete a chapter review which was easy enough for him and didn’t require me to teach a lesson. The day ended early since I didn’t have the strength or mental capacity to do anything, but he didn’t complain about that. When the work was done, I managed to move into the living room where I exchanged a bed for the couch. The newest episode of The Falcon and the Wither Soldier was out so of course we had to watch it. It was fantastic. I can’t believe I’ve become so enthralled with Marvel. When it was over, we watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. It’s homework. My son has to watch the Pirates of the Caribbean movies in preparation for an upcoming essay.

For dinner, my spouse made chicken soup. I know, I don’t eat meat or much meat, but it was chicken soup, my mother’s recipe, and everyone knows chicken soup is the best medicine when you are sick. My only fear was that I might not be able to keep it down since I had hardly eaten anything all day. But not only did I keep it down, I woke up on Saturday feeling almost completely better. Which proved it wasn’t COVID, only a physical manifestation of my internal turmoil.

Saturday — March 27 — was the anniversary of the second worst day of my life. The last time I ever saw my father. The day Mom called and woke me up at 4:30 in the morning, asking me to please take Dad to the hospital. We expected him to die that night. He didn’t. In the morning, he rallied, but he only held on for 19 days. This year, was better day — minus the agonizing memories. The regret that still hangs over me, the regret that I never hugged Dad goodbye.

My son competed in another virtual tournament. Just before the tournament started, the wifi in his taekwondo school cut out. His instructor got it back up but it pooped out again. Anxiety tore my son apart. It’s the last thing he needed before competing. Since the wifi in the school wasn’t cooperating we couldn’t rely on the school’s computer and camera. Therefore, we logged into Zoom using my phone. It wasn’t ideal. I didn’t actually get to see my son perform his traditional form or his weapons form. Nor could I take pictures as I usually do. Instead, I was trying to hold the phone at an angle that enabled the judges to see him best. I also had to make sure I kept him in frame. But the screen was so small, that to me, he didn’t look like much more than a white dot with a black stripe bouncing up and down. Obviously though, I did my job well enough. My son placed first in both events. The first time he’s ever done so. As a result, he continues to be ranked number one in the virtual world in weapons. Walking out to the car, my son smiled and said, “I really think Grandpa was with me in spirit today. He seems to be with me more and more.” To celebrate his victory, he and I biked to Rita’s and I bought him a cherry ice — his choice.

Today, my son and I drove into Queens to pick up Mom. We then had to run some Easter errands — we had to pick up chocolate and bunny breads — errands Dad should have been running. Errands that depressed me because Dad wasn’t here to do them. Errands that I wouldn’t have run at all except Mom and I can’t cancel Easter because my son is looking forward to it. Once the errands were complete, we drove to Mattituck. All day the weather was a mirror to my mood. The rain matched my depression. It’s going to be a long week. And for once, being in Long Island might make me feel worse instead of better. But my son asked if we could please have one last Easter at the beach house. I couldn’t say no. But being out here for Easter there are so many reminders of Dad’s absence. This will be the hardest holiday. Not only is it the time of year Dad died, it also used to be my favorite holiday. Besides, Thanksgiving and Christmas were only one day each. Easter always stretched out over a long weekend. Dad took us to the beach. He took us out to dinner on Holy Saturday. He took my son to the town Easter Egg Hunt. We played dominoes. So instead of it being one intense day of missing, it will be many.

(I hit 200,000 words tonight in the Pandemic Diaries. Not bad for a year in which I feel I haven’t written much or been productive.)

G3 – Day 18

Yesterday, when Mommy and I were taking a walk we got separated. It was kind of cool. 

This morning, when mommy looked out the front door, she told me to come over to her. There were twelve peanut butter cups from the Easter Chick. One for each day leading up to Easter (Easter is on April 12).

Last night, I had the coolest dream. In the dream, I got a new born puppy.