I didn’t think that I was going to write about this today – at lunch, Rami and I were out in Chianti having lunch at our favorite place in Panzano and I was thinking how I could wrap up the trip into a nice little travel-blog-sized packet. It was all lovely – the fields are starting to turn green and the burger was perfect as usual. We got lard to take home. I know that sounds strange, and technically I can’t make it sound that much better because it’s literally lard with herbs and spices mixed into it and spread on Tuscan bread (no salt) – but if you taste it, you’d fall in love.
We came home, I worked out with my new fancy-schmancy app that has a ridiculous alarm that immediately makes me think of the Bruins Goal Horn, and I’m waiting for the shouts of “Zombie Nation” to start, and immediately go back to getting pulled up onto top of a T Station by strangers to stand with fifty other people and chant over the crowd in 2011 after watching the Bruins win the Stanley Cup.
It seems that I can’t even get to the topic now that I’m writing – but really that’s only because I know people will be reading it – which brings me to my point: Today, to me was a day out in Chianti in March. Today for someone else I know, it was ten years since they saw their Dad. My day to remember that is in August, but today my friend shared a post from his sister, a writer, who had shared her writing on her father, and soon after I finished my workout, lying on the bench in my garden, I was reading her regrets and thoughts right after she lost her Dad. For those that don’t know, at least for me, if other people share their similar experiences, my head goes straight back into my own too.
I haven’t written much about death in 106 days. I don’t want to seem sad, nor do I want to spread sadness. Maybe over my thirteen years, one of the worst things for me was to see the helpless want from other people – to make things better, to make the uncomfortable go away. So I write about it off-hand in public but don’t really go into depth on how much it affects people that dealt with loss so early. One of the things that McNair repeats is the thought of not knowing who she would be now if he were still there.
My every day is this. Would I have gone to UNH? Would I have played soccer? Would I have traveled? Would I be here? Would I be the person I am, with the thoughts and beliefs that I have? Of course, I can’t answer it – and neither can she, nor can any of us. So we write it out, and some people read it and relate, and it helps.
I lost my father when I was a teenager, and it affects me every day – even on days when the sun is shining and just hours before I am sipping wine out in the fields of Chianti with my incredible husband and little french bulldog and my mind is miles away from loss, but it slips in to our days in the strangest ways and grounds us with the weight we carry. But we can carry it and remember the happy.
I know my father would approve of who I am overall – even if the distance wasn’t the strong point of the situation. Most of all, I still have my mother that knows and knew and understands it all. So when I forget, or when I doubt, I ask her, and sip my Chianti and I live my wonderful life, and know that just like Kamaron, we’re all ok.