Temporary Transmissions

Day 2

I'm still trying to find words for the sudden emptiness that's been left behind. 

One moment, we were smiling and making plans for what we would do for the rest of the year. It had rained earlier that morning, but by the time my father came to pick up my boy, the sun had come out. 

I still see my father in the doorway--limned in light, morning sun behind him, his hat in his hand, a smile on his face. 

"Grandpa," Juanito said. 

There are those who say that I look exactly like my father and Juanito looks exactly like me. I had to smile watching them together. Grandfather and grandson--I thought in that moment that I should take a picture, but as often happens, the moment passed and I thought--next time, for sure. 

"Well," my father said. "We're going then. And we'll see you later." 

I don't even know if I said goodbye or if I told them the words that often pile up and then get forgotten. 

I love you, I would say that now. I love you. 

Next thing  my neighbour was plunging in through the back door, breathing heavily and telling me

"You have to come and you have to come now." 

When you see death, you know it's happened even when ambulance services tell you they've found a heartbeat and they are rushing your loved ones to hospital. Even when they tell you it will take a while before you know. You already know.  You know and yet you don't know. Or, better said, you don't want to know. You hang onto hope. You plead with the ambulance workers, you tell them that miracles exist even when you already know.

It's bad enough watching your father die. It's more terrible when it's your kid. That bright ray of sunshine, that hope of the future, that receptacle of possibilities.  Juanito was born when he was no longer expected, a beautiful surprise filling the house with his laughter. He filled all the spaces with his chatter and his toys, his books and his stories; with the reminder of hope and life and everything good that was yet to come. 

There he was then, my bright beautiful boy, lying on the pavement and that grey on his face wasn't going away and the wet on his pants was him giving up the ghost and I knew. I knew it in my gut.

There are no words for what I knew. 

"Time will pass. The pain won't go away," Peter says.  He comes by once a week, to check on me and to make sure I'm eating properly.  

"It will still hurt," he continues. "But It won't be as terrible as it was in the beginning."

I wonder how he can say that. Does he know what it's like to lose father and son in one breath? 

Time is passing. I'm sure it is. 

I go to sleep and I hear Juanito's voice in my ear. 

"Mom. Mom." 

His voice filled with laughter. 

"When I grow up, I'll buy you a big house. We'll have a swimming pool." 

It's summer again and we're swimming without a care under the bright sun, under a waterfall and the world is full of light and laughter. 

I wake up to silence and to the dark. I wake up wanting to snatch back that sunny day and that child and his laughter. 

I miss my father, I miss my son. I don't know who I am grieving for or who I am hurting for the most. 

Let me go to sleep. Let me go to sleep. Give me back that dream. 

#

Surely there must be other ways. There must be a way that won't hurt the ones I have to leave behind. 

#