Up in the clouds

My sweet Papa passed away this past week. He suffered a heart attack while at the driving range. He enjoyed 82 years of life on this wretched planet before heading to his forever home in heaven. I can't help but have the morbid selfish thoughts of all the memories he will miss out on in the future. He will not meet my children, or watch my sister get married, or see my cousin Hunter's first college baseball game. He won't be here to kiss my Memaw on the cheek or tell her how much he loves her. He won't be there at Christmas sneaking turkey while pretending to help in the kitchen. He won't fall asleep in his big brown leather recliner while we chatter among ourselves in his home on holidays. These thoughts came streaming in as I watched  my Memaw get dressed for his funeral. Trying to decide is she should wear the scarf my mother bought her or if just the herringbone jacket will do. I try to hold myself together as I think she is getting dressed to say goodbye to the man that stood by her side for over 50 years. She looks beautiful. She looks peaceful. So I push my horrible thoughts away and think about what my Papa WILL be doing in his future.
As I  try to focus on the great memories I will always have of him my brain can't help but picture what it must be like for him in Heaven. My mental images appear in cartoons...because that's just how my brain works. I'm highly surprised there is no pink glitter!

I have these images of my Papa dressed in a golden silk scarf, plaid hat, a pipe hanging from his lip (even though he never smoked...the pipe is still there in my image of him maybe because it seems fancy). I can see him chasing a diamond golf ball through the clouds with his driver made of solid gold. I see him popping up and down in the clouds looking for his ball that might normally end up in the woods whispering "dag nabbit, no good for nothing"  and occasionally "I swannee" under his breathe. I can't help but giggle thinking of this man and his silly sayings that will forever remain "his" words of frustration. These words that make no sense or have any real meaning to them always were most frequent when Papa was trying to fix things...or put together new toys at Christmas! Papa was a man that could fix just about anything...and if he didn't know how to fix it he sure wouldn't tell you that! He would sit for hours trying to figure it out and refuse to give up because he was much to stubborn...all the while expressing his frustration ever so eloquently. I see him blaming his wings for getting in the way of his swing and then trying to adjust them so that it doesn't dare happen again. My Papa sure loved to golf.

My next image is of Papa out on the boat with Peter and John the Baptist, both fishermen by trade in the bible. My Papa LOVED to fish! When he and my Memaw lived on the river my sister Kristen and I would stay with them for a few weeks during the summer time. We always fished off the dock at dusk. He would laugh at us girls trying to get the slimy wiggly worm to stay on the hook long enough to cast it out into the water. Of course he never offered to bait our hooks...it wouldn't be as much fun for him. He loved our "this is disgusting" faces too much. I picture Papa standing on the boat next to John and Peter giving out instructions. "Peter your going about this all wrong..." or "John cast that net out like you actually want to catch some fish today..."

Death and Dark

Death. A sensitive topic begging to be swept beneath the rug of societal conversation. It's presence looms in the darkness of our thoughts that we push down deep inside. We dare not show the world our grief. We dare not be seen in the pit of sadness. Our awkward words of condolence offered with the intentions of making ourselves feel better, less involved in the rawness of its wake. A testament to life and all its value suddenly appreciated. Leaving us hollow, swallowed up and searching. Searching for answers, for blame, for explanations anything to justify the tragedy. It surrounds us inescapable and haunting. Haunting everyone in the light of life. Until it circles back through the other side where the memories are sticky pushing their way through to the light begging to be seen and kept alive. Leading us to a place where despite the unknown we take comfort in what was. We acquire the torch blown out and relight the legacy. We become numb to the pain of loss. Channeling the emptiness to preserve the lost never to be forsaken or forgotten, bringing them back into the light. They shine through us as we press on.