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OLDER

READS

RINGS

D-LAND

GUESTBOOK

Dad called on Wednesday morning as Justin was loading up the car. He asked me to bring a few CD's--Elton John or Rod Stewart--something we could 'crank up' as we got ready for the visitation that evening. He wanted something--anything--to divert his attention, however slightly, from the task at hand.

We got to Dad's at about 2 and Tami was already there. Tami and Ginger hadn't really seen each other or spoken for about three and a half years, except for obligatory small talk in the recent past while exchanging Ginger's aunt, who has Alzheimer's. I was kind to Tami out of pity: I could not live with myself knowing that I had treated my mother the way Tami had, right up until her dying day. I pitied her, but I felt like she had forfeited her right to be there, telling everyone that she was Ginger's daughter. My children are listed in the memorial leaflet as Ginger's grandchildren, though, not step-grandchildren, so I let that stand as my private protest to Tami's prescense.

I had grown a lot closer to Ginger in Tami's voluntary abscence. Ginger had never been unkind to me, but with Tami bowing out of her life, she seemed to become more enthusiastic about things that happened with me. Later that night, after the visitation, I was to learn that Ginger had kept her best friends informed of my experiences, including telling them how Justin and I met. For the last 3 and a half years, I got to step up and fill in as Ginger's daughter and I am so greatful for that. Maybe I should write Tami a Thank You note.

There was a thick air of sadness in the house and in every room, there seemed to be some undetectable thing missing or out of place. I have written before of Dad's dog, Tonka, who drives me crazy. But even he was subdued and seemed confused, sniffing each of us carefully, still looking for Ginger 3 days after she left the house for the last time. Dad was happy to see us; we represented the one thing left in his world that hadn't changed.

He directed me to the kitchen table. It was scattered with photos of Ginger, ranging from black and white baby picture to recent ones. He was going to use them to make a collage at the funeral home, but he wanted me to see them first. I looked at each and every one, many for the first time. I had always thought Ginger was pretty, but I had forgotten how stunning she had been when they first wed.

Dad busied himself warming a meatloaf and talking to me, sitting only briefly to smoke cigarettes. There was a Rod Stewart CD playing softly in the family room, and Justin and I each struggled to fill the sad pauses with positive talk. But in every direction you looked, it was glaringly obvious that she was gone.

When we arrived, Dad had directed Justin to put our bags in his room, meaning his and Ginger's room, the room she died in. So when it came time for me to change clothes, that's where I went. I don't know what I expected...angels, Ginger's imprint as if she were still laying on the bed...but it was very still and peaceful in the room. I sat and looked around at the clothes and pictures, the lotion and jewelry, the random pieces of her left in the wake of her passing. I expected to be upset by having to be in the room, but when Justin came to see if I was ok, I smiled easily for the first time in days and said yes. I think my Dad needed to be shown that the room hadn't become a damp, cold tomb. Later on, it was important to him that Justin and I sleep in there (Ginger's friends had changed the bedclothes) and not in the empty spare room. I slept on Ginger's side of the bed. I don't understand why us sleeping in there was so important, but I hope that it somehow helped my Dad. He, understandably, won't sleep in there and only goes in for a minute when he absolutely has to. He sleeps in his recliner or in the single bed in the computer room.

design by fergie

Bits of fire in the sky push me east back home. I used to live in flames but it's hard on the wings. Choke me. Smoke me. Scare me back. You try but you just can't. I peel the layers in my spare time, and you're easy to see through. I can fly, I've discovered on my own. I may be the lesser butterfly but my wings are just as strong. Who are you to tell me to find a place to land? I may be the lesser butterfly but baby watch me glide.