Monday, March 10, 2014

Not Forgotten

Last night, we watched the premiere of the ABC drama Resurrection and I enjoyed it. It reminded me of the qualities I enjoyed in shows like Lost, Joan of Arcadia, Ghost Whisperer, and Under the Dome. The premise:  people who have been dead for some time return to their hometown at the same age as they were when they died but their friends and family have continued with their lives and aging process.

This made me miss those in my own life who have gone on and long for the opportunity to see them again. I know I will.  But I still fantasized about seeing them sooner and wondered what I would do and say. I know I'd give each one a big hug. And, hopefully, be able to articulate something like this:

PaPa Bennett – It’s been 30 years and I miss you still. I miss that constant swirl of smoke from your BelAir cigarette over your head and, when I hugged you, how your overalls were soft but the metal from the buckles was hard and cool. I miss hanging out with you in your garden and workshop. And I’ll never smell fresh cut grass, freshly chopped wood, or a pair of work gloves and not think of you.

Pop Eagan – It’s been 23 years and I miss you and think of you often. I wish I had your fudge recipe. And I still enjoy and reminisce every time I smell cigar or pipe smoke.

MeMa Bennett – It’s been 14 years. Thank you for teaching me to sew. And how did you thread needles well into your 70s and I’m already having trouble seeing?

Poopaw Mangrum - It's been almost 9 years. I miss your big smile and your even bigger hugs. Your greetings and hospitality were positively contagious. 

Pawpaw Anderson - It's been 10 years. I miss your generic yet heartfelt greetings of "hey, girl" and realized after the fact of how clever you were to greet people like this so you didn't have to keep up with the names of your ever-expanding family. I'll always picture you sitting at your kitchen table with Mawmaw at one side and your beloved Chihuahua, Cocoa, at the other. When Cocoa would get excited about something and start yipping, all it would take would be a gentle stroke of her head and a quiet "hush, Cocoa" to calm her down. At least for a minute.

Mom – It will be 10 years this summer. I miss you…every day. And I love you. It wasn’t until I was a mother myself that I knew how much I had for which to be grateful. Thank you.

Mawmaw Anderson – It will be six years this summer and I miss you calling me on my birthday and singing. I miss your sweet smile. I miss your soft-spoken voice and standing or sitting next to you and not realizing immediately that you had been talking to me for some time.

Harry – It’s been one year and I still haven’t accepted that you’re gone. I look for you when our families gather and, when I don’t see you, I tell myself you’ve just gone outside to smoke. I have to stop myself from saying the phrase “Kay and Harry” because, for the first 38 years of my life, that’s all I knew. It wasn’t two people. You were an entity.