As I am writing this, I am listening to my husband laughing in the other room. It's a wonderful sound. It makes me smile. I just popped into the kitchen to see what was making him laugh: Groucho Marx. He doesn't make me laugh, but that's okay; I like anything that makes K laugh. He has a most joyful sound; his easy, sunny personality is in that sound.
I did a lot of happy things this weekend. I somehow took the weekend off from grief. K and I found a super deal at a four star hotel in the city, and went down with friends to celebrate a couple of things: my friend KT's birthday and the next morning, the World Cup game between USA and England. I grew up in a soccer family, and though we didn't watch soccer much on television, we played from the time we were kids and throughout high school. Of all sports, I love soccer. I can't say that about any other.
Friday started out in a misty rain and with a funeral. I put on the dress I wore to my father's memorial service, warmed up my voice, and picked up a friend (who was also playing). Our mutual friend's funeral was designed to be a celebration of her personality and her extraordinary life. It *was*, too. In her 89 years, this lovely lady gathered people to her--she was vivacious, funny, educated, cultured, and one of those people everybody liked. While the knowledge of her passing made me sad, I was honored to be mentioned in her funeral plans--she had asked that I sing. I also felt fortunate to meet members of my friend's family--women about whom she always referred with such love and generosity of spirit.
In what felt a healthy fashion, after M's service, I went home, changed clothes, and met more friends. I have been officially stricken with World Cup Fever. It happens every time, but I've glommed on to this year's with a particular fervor. Our close circle of friends is celebrating this month of three games a day with themed menus. This is why we were at an English Pub in the city for the USA v England game--while British food is not fab, being at a pub for a soccer match is THE place to enjoy the fullest flavor of it all.
Our month long extravaganza is just beginning. I am loving the diversion from the heaviness of grief. Tomorrow's third game, the 1.30 game, will be bittersweet: it's Forza Italia, and it's one of the days I've chosen to cook for the crew. I decided NOT to cook, really, but to make sandwiches. The sandwiches my father used to make us when we were kids! Being Italian is a wonderful thing. Family, food, soccer....yeah. My dad would usually make these sandwiches on Saturday afternoons for lunch, after the weekly trip to the grocery store. And I'm sharing this memory with my friends, among the many memories that pop up now, since he passed away. These memories are still painful, but I find myself being willing to mention them, and with each, it feels easier. So when Italy plays tomorrow, we will be eating these sandwiches, and here's how to put them together:
Loaf of freshly baked Italian bread (baguettes will do, too) split lengthwise
olive oil and red wine vinegar
dried oregano
garlic powder
sliced tomatoes
fresh basil leaves, cut in chiffonade style
thinly sliced ham, genoa salami, bologna
chunk of sharp provalone cheese, sliced as you like it
Best. Sandwich. Ever.
As I said, I love my husband's laugh. I heard my own laugh this weekend, more than usual. I also heard my dad's laugh in my head, and the way he always said, "Hi!" when I called him on the phone.
Part of me is tired of grieving, but I know I'm not done yet. It's a deep grief. A soul grief. But I know it is beginning to feel manageable, just in time for me to step up some travels -- lessons with my longtime teacher and mentor in preparation for gigs this fall, and a national conference in my field (National Association of Teachers of Singing). After returning from those, we gear up to go to my father's house to move some furniture out, clean out the attic, and clean out the garage. I think the time I've spent healing, in the quiet, sleeping, resting, doing yoga has helped me become stronger and ready to do this last part of Dad's house. When it sells, what will be left can be done from a distance. I can't predict when it will sell, but I'm choosing a time to complete my part. And I feel strong enough to do it, but thank the universe, with K's help. It's not that I want my father to be gone: Not Ever: but there is a point in this process to which I've come --to want the nuts and bolts to be completed. Then, at least, I won't have the battle between The Executrix and The Bereaved. I can simply be my dad's daughter, one who is missing him. I struggle with even articulating any of this. My aunt and I have talked a lot about the fear of saying "I want this to be over," because I fear that by saying it, by *feeling* it, that I want my dad to be gone from me, or that I am shirking my duty as the executrix of his estate, or that his belongings are a burden. No. I am not. They are not. What I am saying is that I want this to be simpler, so that I can focus things other than belongings, trappings. Again, this feels harsh, because he worked very hard, so hard to buy the house in which we grew up, worked so hard to save things of value to him, worked so hard to keep meticulous records, photos, tools, clothes...and yet he was not materialistic at all. I am incredibly conflicted about this, as I assume is evident. Is it wrong of me to disperse with his furniture, of whatever my sister and I don't want? Is it wrong NOT to WANT it? Even this strikes fear in my heart.
I know I am moving along in my grieving because I am no longer blotted out by any of these queries and beginning to really search out how I feel about them. I couldn't even consider them before. They didn't occur to me, really.
Of course, some of the major facets of my grieving are firmly in place, and in time, I know they'll ease up, too. But I'm neither hurrying nor rushing. My dad meant too much to me. I haven't yet a concept of my world without him, and I'm not rushing toward that, either.
Make the sandwiches. You'll LOVE them. And say, "Thanks, Rudy!" I do <3
About Me
- Catherine
- In this blog I have created a haven, a place I allow my deepest emotions to go and sit. I can write easily about what I’ve accomplished. This biography I can recite in my sleep. But I’ve always written poetry and in diaries since I was a teenager. I continued to write poetry in my journals, and not until 2006 did I show them to anyone. I generally write every day, at the present in memoir form. I haven’t written poetry since my mother died in January, 2007. I didn’t write at all between her death and the death of my father three years later in January, 2010. On my father’s birthday in March, 2010, I began this blog, to honor my father and to help me grieve. But I also desperately needed to write, and this stream of conscious style emerged. I needed to find my organic voice.
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