Extremely Painful and Incredibly Real

I watched a movie last night, it was called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I had no idea that it would have anything to do with 9/11 or the events of my life these last few weeks.Kinda creepy, considering it was on the eve of that fateful day. For those of you that haven't seen the movie, it's the story of a boy named Oscar and his search for answers behind the untimely death of his father, who was in the World Trade Center on that September day. He struggles to make sense of it all; just like me.

I'm sitting here, almost two months after losing my dad, and I still hesitate to write any of this. Why should I be so worried? I write all the time. This should be a piece of cake, easy as pie, a walk in the park, or whatever other cliche-bullshit line you wanna throw in there, but the point is, it's not that easy. It's nowhere near being in the same vicinity as being easy. But I have to try. Like Oscar, I'm on my own journey, my own expedition, to try and understand, to make sense of what's happened - to make sense of those things that just don't make sense.

I want to understand the "why" and the "why now". My faith tells me that everyone's journey ends at some point and that my dad is in a better place. My faith, and my mother, remind me that God has a plan for us all, that we have to believe that there was a reason he took my dad - but my heart says something completely different. My dad is gone and there are so many things I miss about him...

I miss the way he made a face when we said we were going for italian food, because he hated spaghetti. I miss the way he said, "but of course" when a simple "yes" would've been enough - but that wasn't my dad. I miss the shuffle of his feet on the tiled floor and the smell of Jovan Musk on the nights he got dressed up and went out with my mom.

I sometimes cry when I smell freshly cut grass, because my dad took pride in his yard and spent so much of his time making sure it stayed perfectly green and neatly cut. My stomach turns into knots when I stop and think about the last time I danced with my dad...because I can't remember. But what I do remember is the way he stood up at a dance, or a wedding, and walked over,tapped me on the shoulder, extended his hand and asked his little girl to dance. I'll always remember my first dance with him at my quinceanera and the song that takes me back to that night...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iE3z-6XO2Ds

Soon after he died I found myself trying to remember all the "last times" - the last time he was at my house, the last time we took a trip together, the last time we laughed about something, the last time I saw him smile, the last time he sang las mananitas for my girls...the list goes on and on. I miss his phone calls on Saturday mornings inviting us for breakfast or to check if we were on our way to the yard sale. I miss my dad at the head of the convoy every summer as we traveled to exotic locations, like Port Isabel, TX. I want to know why he can't be here anymore. I want to understand the pain that I feel and I want someone to explain the emptiness my whole family feels inside our home.

I want to walk inside my parent's house and see him sitting on the sofa with the British Open playing on the TV. I want to see him sitting on the bench of the picnic table and watch him water his grass. I want him to be in the car waiting for my mom to hurry up and turn off lights and lock the doors he said he already locked before they left for the night. I want to hear him smack and chew whatever it is my mom put on his plate. I want him to ask me if I would be available to take pictures at the golf course for his birthday tournament. I want him to call me and tell me to take next Wednesday off so we can go to Benjamin's for a taco before going to the flea market on Moursund.

My dad was a loving man, caring and compassionate. He loved to joke and to make us laugh. I want to go back to that day in the kitchen when my brother walked up to the table we were all sitting around and ask my dad for twenty bucks, only to have my dad respond,looking over his glasses and with slight sarcasm in his voice, mimicking Cedric the Entertainer and respond with, "I'm a grown ass man dawg, how you gonna ask me that in front of my other kids?"....THAT was my dad.

I want him to call Johnny and invite him to the Southwest football games on Friday nights or call him and ask for the numbers after the last game on Sunday night; because that's what he did. I want him to call my brothers and see if they want to play in the upcoming Pan American golf tournament; because that's what he did. I want him to ask me, as I walk out their door, if I needed gas money to get home; because that's what he did. I want him to ask my sister when my nephew's next game was, I want to see him in the gym watching my niece play volleyball and I want him to ask me if we want to come over to watch the game - because that's what my dad did.

I keep saying I have no regrets with the time I spent with my dad - because I don't. I don't regret the way he frowned when he heard my girls were sick, because that let me know he felt their pain. I don't regret the parties I missed or the clubs I didn't go to so that I could be at my parent's house or go with them to a family gathering or simply just to be with them. I don't regret the months he was on chemo, when I was pregnant with Faith and I couldn't be near him due to the radiation - because at least he was here. I don't regret the weeks before his death, when he just layed on the sofa, because I could still see him and talk to him. I don't regret leaving my plate full of food to get cold so that I could sit in his room with him, talk to him and ask him if I made him proud. I don't regret the fact that he didn't get to see the family pictures we took, because all he wanted was to make sure we took one before he died, and we did. I don't regret anything about my time with my dad, not even the night before he died, when I heard him cry out to his mother. I don't regret watching him take his last breath and peacefully fall asleep. I just wish I knew how to let go. I wish I could hear him, just once more, tell me that we'd be ok and to remind me, the way he did the two weeks before he died, that life has to go on. That we have to keep moving forward.

My dad will always be the first man in my life, who never let me down, who was always there for me and who never said no. He's the only grandfather my girls have ever known and was the one that filled a void in Johnny's life. I'm my daddy's girl, I'm the one he took to basketball and volleyball practice; the one he watched make mistake after mistake, but never stopped loving; I'm the one he missed when I didn't show up for a party, the one he looked for when it was time to be a family and the one that loved him to the very end. I'm not the perfect daughter, but for me, he was the perfect dad.

Maybe I'm not supposed to know the "why", because it's not my job to know that; but it is my job to know and remember that he loved his family, each and every one of us, and there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for us. It's my job to remember that, to remind my girls of who their grandfather was and it's my job to tell myself that my dad lived a happy life, and that I was one of the five people who brought him that happiness. Finding peace and comfort again may not be easy to do, but like Thomas Schell said, "If things were easy to find, then they wouldn't be worth finding."

Till next time...

"To be or not to be"...I hate this question.

Graduate school has turned out to be so much more than I expected it to be. Now that I've completed two semesters of graduate work, I'm sitting here thinking, "What the hell was I thinking???" Friends tell me all the time, "How do you do it??" Honestly, I have no idea. Actually, I do. I have a supportive husband and family. I have professors who believe in me and I have God. This was truly a challenging semester - at one point I thought I wouldn't get through it. Perseverence won. I don't pretend to do things right all the time, or even half the time, but I do what I can the best way I know how.

Anyway, this semester I took a graduate poetry class - yes, poetry. I hate poetry. Always have. I'm not Shakespeare, and I'm not going to come up with some monumental line like, "Romeo, Romeo, where-for-art-thou Romeo"...I just won't. I'd probably be more likely to say, "Hey Johnny, where the hell are you?" as I yell across HEB. BUT, believe it or not, somewhere, in the midst of my anti-poetry parade, I actually learned something. I learned I CAN write poetry. I DON'T have to be Will (Shakespeare, if you missed that one) or Robert Frost, I can just be me. So, in honor of this new batch of cornbread, I've decided to share with my blogger audience, all 10 of you (that I secretly love and are so happy to have on my page), a little something I concocted for my final poetry manuscript. I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it. Enjoy!

In-Titled?

You should pay attention to what I say and what I quote –
To the lines in my head and the songs in my heart,
To the cases on my shelf and the discs in my player.
Listen to me and you’ll learn who I am –
It isn’t hard to do – and it’s nothing really new.

I’m no Pretty Woman, with thigh-high leather boots and red curly hair;
I don’t parade around in stilettos,
but I do dye my strands a golden flax,
although I’m not Legally Blonde.
I believe everything happens for a reason,
and there is a time and place for it all,
however, there’s never A Time to Kill or even to Kill Bill.
I’m no man, and I’m not made of iron – so don’t call me Iron Man.
I know I’m not Invincible, but I do think I am strong –
but I’m from the country, so does that make me Country Strong?
I like flowers, different kinds of flowers, even flowers made of steel –
you could send me a bouquet of Steel Magnolias and I’d be happy…
but I don’t like the colors blush or bashful,
because it’s really just pink, and I hate pink.
I don’t think I’m Pretty in Pink,
but I’ve always wanted to work in a record store,
or work in a mall. I did once,
in a men’s store, and I stole a pair of socks –
I know, Despicable Me.

I love the classics, even the ones in black and white,
and while Ms. Hepburn gave us a place to have breakfast,
it was in Sabrina that I found a savior.
I thought I wanted a Streetcar Named Desire,
or maybe even be a Hustler,
but instead I opted to be a Graduate
and stayed clear of any Robinson’s.
I like spontaneity and adventure – but I’m no Goonie
and so you won’t find me near a pirate ship or acting all kinds of looney!

I’m a Cast Away from the outskirts, a small town down south,
and while things were sometimes rough and unfair,
it was usually easy as apple pie – maybe even some American Pie –
but my mother is no M.I.L.F.
We celebrated family, and life, and loss.
We celebrated reunions, dis-unions, and just plain old unions –
they were always Big and Fat, but never Greek –
just your average Wedding in the sticks.
Birthdays were never forgotten
and milestones were a reason to party hard –
but my sixteen was just another day,
just a small cake and only one candle;
oh how I dreamed of a cake with Sixteen Candles, on top of a glass table
and sitting with him – whoever HIM was.
My childhood was about family and God and community and food.


Then it was time to go, when I heard my mom say,
“You’ve Got Mail”, and so I left.
I was Dazed and Confused, but not like that.
Sure, it was Risky Business,
but I met a Few Good Men, and only one was named Gerry.
We started a Club, but not during Breakfast,
it was “demented and sad, but social”.
I tried to Walk the Line, but I always seemed to fail,
ending up in a Face/Off with the woman who wasn’t a M.I.L.F.
At the Twilight of these years, it was time for the party to end,
and even though I wouldn’t graduate With Honors,
I knew I would “graduate life with honor and without regret”.

Now, what seems like 300 years later, My Life is what it is.
Sure, I got Knocked Up, and I have a baby daddy, a Big Daddy,
and he knows how to wipe his own ass.
I’m a member of the First Wives Club,
and I hope it’s the last club I join.
I was a Princess Bride,
and I’ve even learned to say “as you wish”.
I’ve given plenty of people Something to Talk About,
but sometimes I just feel like shouting, “What about me Ray?”
My life is a whirlwind of excitement and structure,
routine and chaos –
I tend to live life Too Fast and Too Furious –
but no more Bad Boys and
wondering what I’m gonna do when they come for me.
I don’t worry about the Color of Money
or giving a Two Weeks Notice every six months.
I turn to Rudy for the hope and inspiration I sometimes desperately need.
I inducted myself into a Society of Dead Poets
and struggle through every moment
in trying to “seize the day”.
I look at my husband and my girls, and I’m awestruck,
sometimes even Moonstruck,
but they don’t call me Mommy Dearest.
I may not always let Hope Float, and yes,
my girls will always hear that
“once upon time their momma knew what it meant to shine”.
But I’ll live my life a day at a time,
me as the Beauty and him as the Beast –
and people will say, “hey Johnny, Be Good”,
or something at least!

So this is my story, and you had nothing to gain,
But like a Gladiator once asked, “Were you not entertained?”