Seems there are reminders of you everywhere I turn. In the kitchen, there are 4 chairs around the table, one of which you will never fill again. Most of the time, we do our work at the kitchen table, or share our meals there, or whatever, and it's all fine. And then sometimes, I sit at my place and look across at your chair, and I'm quiet; the joy seeps away for a time.
I remember when you were little and sat in your high chair at our table; we were a little family of three then. Some lovely students in my Grade 12 Math class made you that bib in the picture as a project! One time you were so exhausted from a very busy day, you almost fell asleep in your dinner! It was so funny to watch your head drop as you started to doze, then you'd rouse yourself and laugh, and then start to bob again... Later, along came Katie and we were now "the millionaire's family", a boy and a girl. I sure felt like I'd struck it rich! I had my best friend for my wife, a handsome, enthusiastic, energetic son and a beautiful, affectionate, happy daughter. We had food on the table, a roof over our heads, a good vehicle and enough to go camping for our summer holidays! It didn't get much better!
At one point, you got it into your head to try eating the dog's dry kibble. Then you tried to convince us that you really liked it! Your mom, brilliant woman that she is, finally asked you if that's what you wanted; you said "Yes!". So she cooked spaghetti (your favourite meal), served up a heaping plate to everyone else, and put a bowl of dog kibble in front of you! Well, you tried to keep up the charade, even eating some of the kibble (though your enthusiasm had now waned), until Judy finally asked you "Are you done eating dog food? Would you like to eat people food now?" You answered with a subdued "Yes, please." and that was the end of eating dog food. Raising you was always an adventure!
As I go into the livingroom, there is a portrait frame, holding school pictures of you and Kate. I always liked that photo; it's the one we chose for your obituary photo as well. You are a handsome young man, looking back at me out of the frame. All kinds of potential. You should have life by the tail. As I turn toward the fish tank, I'm reminded of the time, when you were maybe 4, when you got out of bed after we had all gone to bed and decided to do some fishing of your own in my tank in the kitchen. Somehow I heard a noise, went to investigate, and found you up to your shoulder in the tank, scooping with one of the nets, plants floating, a few fish crushed and doing the backstroke, gravel and water all over the new hardwood in our kitchen, your pyjamas soaked, and a look of sheer joy on your face ....
I go out to the garage to bring the garbage out, and there are your bags of belongings. In the last few years, your housing was somewhat transient, and your stuff got stored in our garage. Several times, you came back, enjoyed a meal with us, got some clean/different clothes and things from storage, and then headed off again. The tears come unbidden as I consider that you'll never be back for these...
We stopped at your grave today, David. It's the first time for me since the funeral. I like Union Cemetery; it has a peaceful feel, with its mature trees. Your grave is mostly in the sun in the morning, shaded by the afternoon, the way I think you would have liked things. The ground has settled significantly. There's a hole in the top corner of the site, and it's cold out. I suppose it won't be the last time I'll stand here silently weeping.
There's a hole inside me too, Davey; a hollow, an ache. The jagged edge of it, that we experienced a few weeks ago, has dulled somewhat. At times, I look up from the table to see that look on your mother's face, and it know it's right at the surface for her, ready to spill over. Guess it will be like that for quite a while. We hold each other and find comfort each other's hug and understanding. Words aren't really always necessary.
I'm glad we had a chance to take you out for lunch before we went away. I'm glad I hugged you, and told you that I loved you. In one sense, there's so much more I'd like to tell you. Like how your arrival in our lives changed me irrevocably; I will forever be "tattooed" by the fact that I got to be your dad. I got to take you to swimming classes, I got to take you fishing, I jumped off the rocks with you into the water, I built your first sandbox, I built your treehouse, I "slept' with you in that treehouse, I taught you to ride a bike, etc, etc.
And I watched you as you slept when you were little (and sometimes when you were bigger) and marvelled that someone would have looked at a description of me and decided "Yup, this is the guy to whom I'm going to entrust the raising of my child." What?!? God, what have I ever done to earn such a remarkable, inestimable privilege? Why would You ever think to gift me with such a treasure? I'm just an ordinary guy, a math teacher from Oshawa. How could You ever imagine that I would measure up to such a massive responsibility? And let's be transparent, God; I blew it many times! And in that area, my memory seems to be pretty good, much to my chagrin. But You were faithful, when I turned to You for help, when I prayed for the ability to love my David as You would want me to, You kept teaching me, You kept humbling me to go and ask David's forgiveness when I wronged him, and You kept bringing people in my life to teach me and to help me raise him.
I still remember the song I sang at church one Father's Day:
I wanna be just like You, 'cuz he wants to be just like me
I wanna be a holy example for his innocent eyes to see
Help me be a living Bible, Lord, that my little boy can read.
I wanna be just like you, 'cuz he wants to be like me.
I remember driving to London that day almost 21 years ago now. It was raining hard that day. We arrived at the hospital, where Joan, our adoption worker met us at the door. She walked us down the long corridor to the room where you were waiting, and I remember thinking how loud her heels sounded on the terrazo floors. We stepped in the door and I was suddenly terrified: what if I couldn't love you the way you needed to be loved, because you weren't biologically mine? And then Suzanne, your birth mother's adoption worker, scooped you out of the glass bassinet and gave you to ME first (highly unusual; you would typically be given to "Mom" first) and I loved you! Oh David, I was overwhelmed and forever marked by my love for you! There would never be another doubt in my mind; you could not have been more loved if you had been born to us!
I don't know how all that stuff will work in heaven; I know my main focus will be my Saviour, who made it possible for me (and you!) to even consider being in heaven someday. But I imagine now that I will see you and give you the biggest bear hug you can handle! And your heart and mine will be healed and right and at peace and filled with joy. No more tears, no more sadness.
But for now, I still miss you, my David, my son.
Beautiful post :)
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