Looking Past The Pain

It’s strange. As a kid, I always wanted to sleep in my parents' bedroom.  A countless number of times  I wandered in here after waking from a scary dream, only to be guided back to my own room.  I quickly learned that if I tiptoed in and slept at the foot of the bed or even on the floor, I would have a better chance of staying longer.  Eventually, though I’d be found out and taken back to the room I shared with my sister and told 'Children should sleep in their own beds.'

Tonight, for the first time ever, I'm sleeping in here as a grown adult. And as so often happens in life, the anticipation does not mirror the reality. It feels empty – not the way I imagined when I was little.  Obviously, it was never the bed I was after, but the comfort and protection of my mom.   Interestingly enough, tonight, my mom is sleeping down the hall in my old room – apparently, that bed is more comfortable.

As I roll over to go to sleep, I look to my Dad’s side of the room to the photos he hung on the wall years ago.  Two, in particular, grab my attention.  The first is of his mom, my Nonni, feeding my younger brother Anthony in his highchair.   The other is a close-up of my mom’s face. It was taken when she was around 35.  She was leaning her head against her hand, her soft blond hair sweeping gently across her brow, her bright blue eyes staring back. Looking at her, you’d never know that she had already had five kids in six and a half years.

Although I’ve seen these photos hundreds of times, right now they grab at my chest, particularly the one of my Nonnie.   I can’t quite understand why darkness begins to pool in my gut.   Then it hits me.  The last time I last looked at the photos – really looked at them with more than just a passing glance — my Dad was still here.  

It’s been three years since he died, and it isn’t until this moment that I realize that like my Nonnie, I can’t see my Dad outside of photographs.  I feel anchorless.  The pain slices me.  I turn away to escape the blaring view.

In the morning, when I open my eyes, the first images I see are those pictures.  Rather than turning, I force myself to stare.  These snapshots and their prominence next to my Dad’s side of the bed are a glimpse of the fullness of his love for his mom and my mom.  I also realize that photos are just one of the ways I can still “see” my Dad.  He’s still part of so many conversations and experiences, even if I don’t say his name. 

Just last week, as we stopped at Potter Brothers ski store, on the way up to Belleayre Mountain,  to see if they had any discount ski tickets, something my Dad always did, I smiled.  I could see him perusing the clothing racks to check for good deals.  

Later at the Mountain, on the way up the chairlift, I could envision my Dad sitting beside me, singing, while my siblings and I as our younger selves ducked down in case someone we knew saw us. 

So while missing him still hurts, more than I’m willing to show, I know that he is still with me.

I guess my mom’s bed can offer me some comfort as long as I am willing to be brave and look past what scares me.