Imperfections.

Life is perfected by death – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“My life will never be complete because he died and I can’t see him anymore.”

It is a strange thing that we, the living, do to them, the dead.

We carve immortal memories from what is left of mortal beings. One of humankinds’ greatest gifts is its ability to process emotion, raw and refined. And yet each one of us discovers, as we all must do, that is at the root of our greatest downfalls. Greed begets anger and loneliness and remorse. With great success comes great disappointment. Humor can lead us down hurtful paths, while trust leaves us naked and exposed.

But it is love that cuts the deepest.

In life, he was a man. No more, no less. He was dedicated to his job from start to finish, and dedicated to leaving it at the end of the day when he exited the uniform. Family vacations were shelved in favor of bicycle parts and bicycles, while extra income was shelved for family time. His body cleared rooms, clearing beans off the familial menu in perpetuity. When it came to handiwork, he generated more cost than cost savings. He whistled in his sleep, and hiccupped for days on end to the point of gastrointestinal distress.

In death, imperfections fade.

It isn’t that time heals all wounds. It’s that time covers them gently, pushing pain and anger and character flaws we liked less beneath a soothing balm of softer memories and laughter and the characteristics we liked more. We forget that we didn’t like the cheery voice breaking the morning silence, the clothes piled on the floor, or the way he cleaned the sink. As adults we brush these inconvenient memories aside.

But children don’t manufacture immortality – it exists in their memories. The smells that irritated me are funny memories to them. The cardboard box spaceship that left work for me left them with a lifetime of memories. The temporary tattoos that appeared at inconvenient times are permanently etched and the butterflies that I chose and he hung are his and his alone. For them, he has become the perfect memory, while I am the imperfect reality.

“Sweetheart, your life is already complete. You had the very best of Daddy, and he had the very best of you. And now we can open another door and see what or who comes next.”

“We already know what comes next. Cocoa!”

“Right. … Unless the dog is going to take out the garbage, I’m hoping there’s a “who” around the corner, too.”

“Like Gerard Butler?”

Spoonfuls of Sugar.

“You could sit here, you know, and smoochy, smoochy.”

After more than four years, what’s missing has become more than an empty chair at the dinner table. It’s more than an unfilled gap. A wish ungranted.

As a child, I thought that maybe, just maybe, there really was a world with dancing penguins if you jumped just so through the colorful dust of sidewalk chalk. There was something intriguing about having a lady with a magic parasol float gracefully onto your doorstep to smooth out the wrinkles of the day. But as an adult forced into bringing help into our life simply to make it livable, the lilting voice I remember is now a nagging crone.

Spoonfuls of sugar, indeed.

But maybe, just maybe, we could toss our wishes and dreams into the fire and watch them float into the air to find what’s missing and bring it home. For the past 20 minutes on this lazy Sunday we have wandered in the soft rain, crafting their advertisement.

No pimples. Tattoos only on appropriate body parts, like arms. Two tattoos are okay. More than four is not. No bad stickers, which are mostly on motorcycles. Dark hair, like ours. Dirty blonde is okay. Sun-drenched blonde that … you know … “shoots out” is not.

He has to laugh and know exactly where to tickle Mom so that she laughs the beautiful laugh and smiles the beautiful smile. Muscles, but not too many muscles. Maybe see if he can do the “Pec Pop of Love.” Must be taller than Mom. Can’t be fat. Has to be kind of the same size as Mom, or like Mom, because she is the perfect size.

Has to be a “gamer.” Must love movies and LEGOs and Harry Potter. If he does not love Harry Potter, he needs to watch the movies and learn about Harry Potter. Needs to have fun and act like a teenager. Like Grampa, who has fun being old because he acts like a teenager. Must be an adventurer. Likes boats and airplanes. Definitely.

Needs to love hockey. And dogs. And lazy Sundays. What if he doesn’t love us?

Can’t have a silly car. Or a dirty car. Especially if it has lots of bad stickers on it. Has to have girls of his own. At least one because Mom isn’t having more babies. Needs to want to have “boy time” and to teach things like how to shave and other things about girls. Has style and knows style. Has to come and watch them at their things and sometimes pick them up from school. Must love Christmas. MUST. Doesn’t need to like cake. And ice cream. Definitely ice cream. Likes to sing and maybe dance. Will pick up Cocoa’s poop so that we don’t have to. Can fix the freezer and unlock the garage door that we lost the keys to. Likes sushi. And crab. And shrimp. And scallops. And peas. And popcorn. And hot tamales.

Has to be able to swim. Likes rock climbing. Will go bike riding and on walks. Is active.

Has to have his own money because he can’t just ask for Mom’s all the time. But he can’t work so that we can do fun things. But he has to help Mom so that she doesn’t have to do everything by herself all the time. 

Can’t be mad a lot. Has to be respectful that we had another Dad, and he has to think it’s okay when we are sad because we miss him and help us feel not so sad. Has to spend time with us, not just time Mom, so that we know he’s right.

He can’t be smelly. He has to take showers. And he can’t burp. But farts are okay. Has to chew with his mouth closed and teach Spencer to chew with his mouth closed.

“You’re okay with that? Mommy meeting someone? And if she likes him she can kiss him?”

“Yes, but he has to be the right one."

Sharp Swords.

"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." – Albus Dumbledore

I am, admittedly, verbose.

I once saved the word ‘phantasmagorical’ in my box of alphabetical treasures, waiting for the moment when I could justify its accurate usage. Mid-way through high school I quietly trounced the bookworms with a score that put me, courtesy of my voracious appetite for words, in the country’s top percentile. I cringe at curtly clipped statements, phrases devoid of substance and gentility. I spend countless hours leafing through parchment, finding stories that will take my children on wild adventures carried only by their imaginations and the words on a page. I chased a career that filled my days with words and the power behind them. And in words I found rebirth.

Letters on a page—angry, sad, loving, spiteful, sanctimonious, misinformed, cautious, joyful—that raise the pen high above the sword.

“Mom, why do people say mean things?

“Remember how Miss D**** tells us to take three deep breaths when something upsets us? It’s kind of like that. People should take three deep breaths before they say something, because you can’t take words back after you say them. And words can make you happy or mad or very sad.”

“Do people say mean things about you?”

“Yes. Sometimes they do.”

From the moment those blue eyes said those four words that tore the earth from beneath me—No, he isn’t okay—words have failed me.

I struggled to fill tear stained pages with the pain of a grief that seemed endless, to find the words that would soothe my children’s suffering. Phone calls and emails and well-intentioned visits were a gauntlet run of subtle and not-so-subtle questions about what happened, what I saw, how we felt and what the spoils of death had left me. Words were thrown in anger, sinking deep into my memory like little daggers that would never be freed. I read the reports, reconciling the clinical facts with the moments that replayed soundless in my mind. I watched words on the screen as people hiding in anonymity claimed to know the intimate details, and in words I now recount the painful decimation of the life that I knew to be analyzed and questioned anew.

In words I struggle to give my daughter the strength and the confidence to withstand the hurtful words of children that should not be so willing and able to inflict pain in their own words.

You don’t have a Daddy. You’re not pretty. You’re fat. Your Daddy wasn’t cool.

And in words I watch adults set the examples our children embody, Facebook and happy hours and play dates the grown-up schoolyards where we hide behind claims of loyalty and self-righteousness without regard for the complexities of life and the impact we leave behind with a simple turn of phrase or carelessly thrown word.

“Sweetheart, words are an incredibly powerful gift. And many people don’t realize, or maybe they forget, that we have to be careful how we use that gift. Don’t ever let someone’s words change you, even if they hurt. Words can change the world, but only if you take care and use them wisely.”

“Mommy, I love you so much.”

“I love you, my beautiful girl. More than words can say.”

Shots Fired.

“Your call.”

Two words. That’s all it took to send me over the edge of the angry cliff I’ve been dancing on the edge of for weeks. Your call.

But it isn’t my call. It hasn’t been my call for years. It’s their call and his call and others’ call but never my call. And even when it’s supposed to be my call, it isn’t. Because, visible or not, someone or something else is always calling the shots.

Two words that pushed me out the door on to the cold, dark streets past midnight, coyotes and other nocturnal predators my only companions. Cold tears blur the path ahead, a path once clear now littered with doubt and uncertainty and risk, and my chest seizes with fear against the dark and the loneliness that greets me at every turn. While the world around me sleeps, I race to escape those two words that mean so little to everyone else, but everything to me.

Schedules built around others and their priorities and what they want and when they want it. Never what I need and want and when I need and want it. No protection. No support.  No one to shield me against the rapid fire. To dry my tears when they fall. To catch me when I stumble.

We’re in the middle of the gauntlet, a six-month stretch of milestones and holidays that only serve to proclaim in garish Hallmarked fashion that I am, supposedly, calling the shots on my own. I’m facing a minefield of memories that has dragged on for years, looking to a horizon forever in the distance. 

Shots fired. None of which are my call.

Let Freedom Reign.

Royal Magistrate: “The prisoner wishes to say a word.”
William Wallace: “Freedom!”
-Braveheart

My mother’s photo albums are filled with faded pictures and polaroids, a catalogue of time past and memories tucked away only to be pulled out over laughter and sparkling wine.

The tiny girl in a too-small t-shirt and rubber boots roaming the plains of my own hundred acre woods. A tiny bundle in my mother’s arms. Locks of warm brown hair and long, dark eyelashes hinting at mischief, perched in my father’s arms on a Mother’s Day long ago. Warm in my footed, polyester pajamas, a childhood fire hazard of the seventies. Pulling construction paper stars from the wall, counting the days to Santa’s arrival. My debut as a designer, naked save construction paper crowns and toilet paper wrappings. Looking through the images in my mind, I see the girl inside the woman today.

I’m either in clothes. Or not.

I have a love-hate relationship with clothing. I spend my work days proper and polished – jet blacks and creamy ivories splattered with bright color and glistening touches, simple sheaths covering my frame in confidence and comfort. The 3.5-inch peep toes that I slip comfortably into each morning even the playing field in the all-too-often male-dominated playing field that towers over me, my diminutive stature belying the tenacity of my will. The single diamond that I once wore is long gone and unusual earrings my only embellishment, the jewelry in the box forsaken but not forgotten.

But home is where the heart is, and for all my reticence and caution, I wear my heart on my sleeve. And my heart likes to be comfortable.

It does not like the bra straps that constrict and confine, panty lines that cut and that chafe. It does not like socks that sag and sweaters that scratch. It does not like Spanx that cinches and suffocates and nylons that itch and tear and roll. It does not like zips and buttons and snaps that bunch and nip and squish.

My heart … and my body … like freedom.

But naked is not permissible for the girl that has become a woman. There’re laws about that sort of thing. But on Sundays the little girl inside runs free. Pjs and barefeet reign, and cozy cups of tea are sipped on the patio in the morning quiet. Her wild mane piled high, her face clean of the socially required mask all women wear. The smell of laundry soap and clean dishes and the sounds of Sunday morning cartoons filling the house. 

And tiny feet peek out as they lounge and race and giggle and argue the Sunday away, wearing their hearts on the sleeves of their pajamas.