And I got up early enough to assist my wife in making breakfast, but now I’m just sipping on a cup of coffee and watching. I tried to surprise her by cooking the oatmeal, but I burned it. I always burn the oatmeal. So we just had a good laugh, dumped it out and started all over again.
When is the last time the two of us have been up this early and alone, all alone? No children, just us. When is the last time we got to just sit and talk and poke fun at one another and laugh like children? When is the last time we wished for time to just stop for a minute or two so that we would have just that much longer to do nothing but enjoy the other’s company?
But soon we’ll have to wake the children up and the chaos of the morning routine will begin. And my wife will be off to work and the children off to school. I don’t have any classes on Friday, but usually I go in just to prepare for the upcoming week. However, today I think I will stay home. I will stay home and just write. I feel like just writing.
But I do not want to write anything angry, anything polemical. I don’t want to write in short, clipped, harsh sentences filled with anger, with disappointment, with resentment. Instead I would like to write long flowing sentences filled with the pleasant dulcet tones of remembrance, of love, of longing.
Perhaps I’ll write something about my grandmother. I am finally at that point in my grief that I can look at her picture without tearing up. I can finally think of her without having to choke down that lump in my throat. I still miss her deeply, but now her memory is soothing, not upsetting. Now I can finally appreciate what a blessing she always was, always will be.
Perhaps I’ll finish that piece I started for my wife. It has a catchy title: “Because I Could Never Love You Nearly Enough.” But I must find the prose, the flow, the language to live up to the promise of that title. And if I finish it in time, I can get it out in the morning mail, and the letter will arrive in the mail tomorrow just in time to find someplace for the kids to spend the evening. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. One thing at a time.
I know I need to write a letter to my oldest daughter. I feel the need to tell her I love her, and that I am proud of her, and that I think about her daily, almost hourly. She is always on my mind. She is always in my heart even though she is so far away.
Of course, I could just pick up the phone and just call her, but a phone call does not have the permanence of writing. Whenever she is down, whenever she is lonely, whenever she feels defeated, I want her to be able to pick up her father’s letter and read it. And read it over again and know that whatever she is going through, I am there for her, and I am there with her even though she is so far away.
Alisia, if you read this today, please know that I love you even more than I love myself. And I miss you terribly and look forward to seeing you shortly.
Yes, this is turning out to be an exceptional day. I wish every day was just like this one; I wish I could just spend every day writing more stuff like this. But if every day was like this one, would this moment still be as sweet?