Wading Through Memories

Since returning from my father-in-law's I've been slowly flipping through 10 years of pictures: Christmases in Florida, a cranky middle one finally asleep in his arms, picking oranges, grapefruit and lemons by the basketful, eating turduken, tourtiere and boulettes, feeding the little one whipped cream, washing the cars, chasing lizards and ibis, doing puzzles, making marmalades. I've seen the grandkids grow up, while the rest of us remained seemingly unchanged, until this last visit.

And now, my heart beats for any link or connection, that would return me to him. To feel his hand gripping mine. To see that sly smile tease at the corner of his mouth, and light up the yellowing whites of his eyes as we talk about possible character developments. The greatfulness of having his latest writings. The promise to share them with everyone.

I listen for his laughter as I replay snipits of our last conversation over and over in my head. With tears in both our eyes he said, "I never thought I'd love an Italian." My reply, "It's worse. I'm Sicilian." It's true.

Each time the phone rings, I suspect it is that call. The one that will bring the expected news of passing and release. I'll pick up the phone and say hello, only to hear the silence that is required to bolster such news: a quick stilted sentence. Having been repeated a dozen times. And a promise of more will follow.

As I wait, I'm wading through the memories. Allowing the love to lap at my knees, and swirl around my arms.

Unlike my daughter who said, with confidence, "Say hi to Memere," I don't know what is beyond the veil of eternal rest. But if there is a place, a heaven prehaps here on earth, then Pepere you're more than welcome to stop on by here anytime. And bring along Memere.