Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Yes, it’s me. I know, I haven’t written in a long time. Months. Okay, over a year. I feel bad about it.

But the reason is, well…you’re dead. And it feels sort of weird to be writing to a dead person.

Yes, it’s been just over a year since you died. Memorial Day 2005. Sometimes if feels like it was just yesterday – other times it feels like it was a lifetime ago.

This Memorial Day we visited your gravesite. Yes, you were cremated, and your ashes were scattered into the ocean at sunrise, just as you had asked. I made sure we honored your request. But I kept a small amount of your ashes and had them buried here, so we'd all have a place to go to remember you.

Memorial Day will never be the same for me now, and this year was the first year to actually understand how much it has changed. This year we took the boys camping in The Camping Machine – just like last year. Remember last year? Well, no, I guess you wouldn’t, but I’ll never forget it. We had just returned from camping, our very first trip with the Camping Machine. We were unloading our gear when my phone rang – my sister telling me the doctors told her you had hours to live.

Do you know what it’s like to get a call like that? Not very much fun. Even though I’d sort of been expecting something like that, given how your health had been going downhill, nothing can prepare you for the call when it actually comes. And of course, it only gets worse from there. Wondering if I was going to make it to your bedside, 2000 miles away, before you passed away. Cross-country red-eye flights are lousy anyway – even worse when you’re racing the Grim Reaper. Finally getting there with, as it turns out, 90 minutes to spare.

90 minutes. Do you remember anything I said to you? Did any of it makes sense? By then, or course, you couldn’t talk. The doctor told me you could hear, and comprehend, but I wonder. I wonder if you heard me, I wonder if you understood.

90 minutes should be long enough to say goodbye – well, it is, but it isn’t. Because I can barely remember anything I said to you, my last words to you. I think for a time there I was babbling about inconsequential stuff, just talking, making no sense. How do you prepare to say your final goodbye? How do you sum up a lifetime of shared experience, a lifetime of thanks, in 90 minutes? What can you possibly say?

Well, I don’t know – all I know is that I didn’t do it.

In the past year I’ve thought of all the things I wish I had said. So many things I wish I could have told you. How grateful I am for all that you did for me over the course of my life. All the times I should have said “Thank you.” All the times I should have said something…but was too busy, too selfish, too preoccupied with my own business.

Yet, somehow, I think that wherever you are right now, you understand. Because you always did understand me. That’s the only thing that gives me some measure of comfort; that because you know me so well, you know that I did the best I could.

So a year has gone by. I still catch myself once in a while thinking, “I’ll have to tell Mom about this,” only to realize I can’t call you or send you photos. It happens less often these days, but it still happens.

Mostly I want to tell you how the boys are doing. I want to tell you about how well Chris did in Kindergarten. It’s hard to believe he’ll be going to First Grade this fall. As a former teacher I know you would appreciate hearing about his time in school. He really is very bright and was near the top of his kindergarten class. He’s a social kid and has made lots of friends. I want to tell you about how well he did in soccer this spring…and how much fun I had being his coach. The Mighty Green Dragons finished 6-2 in the spring season, and we’re looking ahead to the fall season.

I want to tell you about Tommy, our wild child, the boy with the mind of his own. I can almost hear you chuckling now. I know you would admire his spunk. You’d probably say, “That’s the Irish in him,” and I’m sure you’re right. As difficult and trying as he can be, the truth is I admire his fierce independence myself – I’m not going to try to break him. And I want to tell you how excited he is that this fall he will finally get to play soccer too, just like Chris, complete with a real uniform, his own team and real league games. Even though he won’t be in the same age bracket as Chris, he’ll finally get to play instead of watch. And yes, I’ll be his coach too.

I want to tell you about our camping trips. I know you would love to hear the stories from Chris and Tommy, telling you all the neat things they have seen and done on our tips. They really love hooking up ‘The Camping Machine’ and going someplace to see and do new things. They loved our recent trip to Dinosaur National Monument, and in fact they are still roaring like T-Rexes. Now they are anxiously awaiting our trip to Yellowstone National Park over the 4th of July – they want to see the water that shoots up into the air right from the ground. I promised them we would be a family that would do things together, and I think you’d be pleased that we’re doing just that.

I want you to know that I married very well. MBW is a wonder mother to the boys and a great partner for me. I wish you could have had the happy and fulfilling marriage that I am fortunate enough to have. We’re building avery nice life together.

Even my Old Friend is still hanging in there. Can you believe my cat is 19 years old? Sure, he can’t jump up on the bed anymore, and he sleeps a lot, but the vet says he’s healthy and he’ll still take a swat at Tommy if he pulls his tail too hard. You always had a soft spot in your heart for animals – your own and anyone else’s. I’m sure you’d be glad to know my cat gets lots of love.

Yes, I wish I could tell you all these things. But I wonder if you already know. What is it like, where you are? Are you able to look in on what we’re doing? Does it work like that? Does your spirit drop by from time to time, taking a look around, keeping up with how your son and grandkids are doing? Or is it really just over?

I kind of always thought you’d find a way to make your presence known, to somehow let me know you were out there, There was only one time that I had that feeling, and even then I wasn’t sure. I think Tommy got a stronger sense of you. Maybe he has more of that spiritual awareness about him. Or maybe he's more like you - that indomitable spirit. I don't know.

Anyway, Mom, I just thought I’d drop you this note to let you know I’m thinking about you. I just want to let you know we’re all doing well. My knee is healing, slowly but surely. It still hurts but I’m walking around without a brace and hopefully I’ll be mostly healed by this fall. The job is kind of a drag, but it pays reasonably well and, after all, I’m working to live, not living to work. I’m reasonably healthy, the family is healthy, we’ve got food on the table, a few dollars in the bank and health insurance. Life is good.

I’m blessed.

But I still miss you. I hope you can see what we’re doing. I hope you can see that I am trying very hard to be a good dad, to raise my boys right, to be actively engaged in their daily lives. To be a dad that makes a difference. I am an Ordinary Man, mom – nothing special. But I have an extraordinary family, an extraordinary change to make a difference in the lives of two very special kids. And I’m going to do the very best I can.

Someday, hopefully not anytime soon, it will be my time to go. Perhaps then we’ll get together and I’ll be able to tell you all these things. I hope, if it works out that way, you’ll be able to say, “I’m proud of you, son. You were a great dad.”

That would mean more than you could know.

Thanks for everything, Mom.

Thanks for listening.

It’s great to be The Family Man.