STARTING FRESH

"Starting Fresh" - Something was missing.

Certainly not love. Love was obvious.

Clearly not enthusiasm.

Even the youngest in his impossible longing could still find a reason to smile—

Mermen.

“Colin,” I began. “I came upon rows and rows of sequined tails in a store today and almost bought you a mermaid sack. But it was purple and…” Before finishing my thought, he had understood my dilemma. “A mer-MAN sack," he corrected. And that would have been perfect!”

The childlike art of reconciliation on full display.

In the past three months there has been much to reconcile. Even the fantastical imaginings of a glittering undersea world are still no match for the all-consuming missing of a loving daddy.  In the wee hours of just another Sunday morning, Matt died, leaving his wife, our daughter, crouched on the kitchen floor breathing life into a lifeless body.  We arrive two days later, the impossibility of life-moving-on enveloping us in a chaos of activity born of so many friends circling the wagons. Our loss is so evidently theirs. 

Despite Matt's absence, or maybe because of it, I am keenly aware of the parts of him left behind—the recent deck repairs, wood posts and stair-rails not yet stained; the half-finished Perrier bottle carefully placed on the top shelf of the refrigerator like a chiseled David perched on his pedestal; the recently repaired half ton truck parked in the driveway.

But it was the worn sofa pillows [the years of punching down and folding over] that conjured the sweetest images—of countless naps and cuddles, and an unrelenting physical affection that comes with hair-tussling, floor-wrestling, and after-game napping that put those throw pillows to the test. Like his giant, all-engulfing bear hugs, everything in this space is well-loved. Nothing to be simply admired.

These days, it is the interior landscapes of three boys working it out and through that are far more consuming than what surrounds.

Without awareness, shoes are dropped where they separate tired feet. Dirty socks are pulled off and tossed aside. Backpacks are slung from exhausted shoulders to dining room chairs. The physical ache of childhood’s demands never matching the ache of the heart, pressed down…between early rising and first period, lunch bell and chemistry class, baseball practice and bath time…but never discarded.

Yet, in the midst of this permanency of missing, something must go to make room for what only can only be described as a “fresh start.” It’s not easy to do away with the DNA of a thousand cuddles. But we pack up each pillow with reverence and an unspoken understanding that cuddles come from surprising places and in endless supply.

Of all of us, the one most-quiet about all the goings on is the one with the most to tell. Embedded in his grey muzzle, like a tiny tick, the wisdom of a family’s decades burrows in. He carries the secrets of quiet conversations late into the night. Of nestling in at the center of the hallway, waiting for boys to come home and a husband to come to bed. Buster knows everything. Even though his old eyes are droopy with the weight of a family’s yesterdays, he is rooted in his obligation to be present in pressing matters. He is a family’s comfort now. The keeper of hearts and tears. The meaning of our tender pats in passing are not lost on anyone—we know Buster is sovereign King even in his twilight.

Kelli and I fill the trash cans and then gaze at empty sofas and bare mattresses, the striped down versions of a naked grief. Exposed. Shared. Unspoken but like a hero’s poem, recited in the small advances of daily battles and tiny victories. New pillows will be one of those.

Not simply “things” to gaze upon but soft landings taking new form.

Buster greets and sniffs approval as each stuffed bag reveals the possibility of a new story—Crisp white cotton sheets. Impossibly luscious blankets to hide within. Fur throw pillows made for tender cheeks. Squishy bed pillows to conjure sweet dreams.

Soft cuddles. Endless supply.

Like pulling back the wrinkles, our hands work to rediscover the familiar…”oh there you are, family.” A belonging to both one another and home is taken back, reclaimed and re-established—more than a place to sleep and forget  but a sanctuary of hope and rebirth that smells clean, fresh, redeeming.

We decide to go bowling. Everything new in its proper place and it’s time for fun of a childlike kind. Our rearranging of private spaces has re-energized our spirits and now the idea of public humiliation seems like fun.

Bowling. An exercise in concentration. Mind over matter. The meaning not lost on our pack. We are like ravenous wolves. First, we order an impossible amount of food. Then we size up the alley. Ten pins. Singular focus. And for 90 minutes the pain in our chests takes up residence in our backs and elbows. We are determined to advance and conquer.

For me, the competition is not about being better than the ones I play against but more an internal conversation that fights between doubt and confidence.

That debate, like most others in life, depends on my ability to focus.  I, like the others, will myself to be in the moment.

Strike. Spare. Gutter. Like our communal grief, the inconsistency sneaks up and overcomes.

Tears are like gutter balls. “Where did that one come from?!”

Kelli would say the takeover comes when least expected. I watch her with her boys. Wholly her. Channeling Matt. And I see the union “as one” come alive in her ability to see the world from a new “bifocal” lens. It’s as if he is still there. Kelli would vehemently disagree. And yet, the power and elegance of their oneness dances over what remains like an irresistible tango.

He is here. I see him in her. In their boys. Cole’s care-taking. Conner’s mischief. Colin’s heart. I breathe in the reality of dimensions colliding. Of time overlapping and heaven intercepting our now. And we bowl. We eat flatbread. And sliders. And we bowl. We dry our fingers, tuck our fingers into the purple ball and we bowl.

We lose ourselves in the play while the work of forgetting is being accomplished.

The thin green line warns we can stretch our toes to the edge, but we cannot cross over. We obey even as the narrow arrows beckon the ball to move straight ahead.

A part of us remains. Another part, the trajectory of our will, powerfully and furiously seeks a distant target. Strike. We stand. Dutifully. Behind the thin green line. But for a moment we throw our energy toward the target, hoping we connect.

Concentrating is exhausting. The quiet car ride home is evidence of our exertion. Arriving home, we share our “goodnights” but not in some mundane, usual way. Nothing is ordinary now. The kiss goodnight is to be worshipped. It could be the last.

Cole’s stubble brushes across my lips as I teach him the one-cheek-and-then-the-other way of my ancestors. His wisdom, as ancient and spellbinding as their legendary tales. He awes me without knowing it.

Connor’s teasing plays hard-to-get. He demands the pursuit, reminding that what remains is treasure enough to fight for it. The duality of his quiet charm is captivating and undeniably worth the chase.

Colin gives his whole self to the ritual of good night. There is nothing measured in his response to life. His dimpled-face sparkles with the rapture of  living, reminding even God why He set the world into motion in the first place.

They are, each of them, a super nova of divine energy.

Upstairs, Ron and I lay our heads on just-purchased pillows in a bed that mourns the departure of a college-bound companion. Fresh sheets washed and stretched and laid out new, we take full advantage of the real estate of solo slumber that a large mattress gifts.

But something draws us close—maybe it’s the memories of the day, or the sweet residue of laughter. Maybe it’s being in our daughter’s house, giving what we can to her season of need. Maybe it’s the echoes of our own lifetime of joys and sorrows over thirty-nine years. Whatever the pull, we, like magnets, are drawn by an inexplicable force. I lift my head from my soft pillow and rest it in the crook of his strong arm. “You’re quite a bowler, Mrs. Kraft,” he whispers to the darkness.

Something stirs. Affirmation. Affection. Passion. Love.

The tiny pieces of a thousand lifetimes. The sweetness of seemingly insignificant breaths. The infinity of tender stolen kisses like stars outside our window. A universe of having and holding. And then of letting go.