The Lighthouse

the lighthouse

25 July 2011


We are now past the two and a half year mark of Pop's death.  What people said would happen, has happened: the grief has eased. It hasn't gone, it isn't really diminished though it has receded. It doesn't strike as sharply as it once did, but it still has a sneaky habit of popping out of nowhere, unexpectedly, in unguarded moments. It occasionally still brings companions: disbelief, and anger.

In the early hours of the morning, I was talking to Four (who is approaching his fifth birthday) about his recent visit to Oma's house.  He was telling me about the 'garner snake' they saw in the big field. He recounted the story about Opa not liking snakes, but that one time he killed one in the garden with the shovel.

Somehow in his young mind the snake became the reason for Opa's death. I tried to explain that the snake had nothing to do with it, that Opa's body just stopped working.  This little guy is usually like a faucet when he's upset. Tears pour over the rim of his eyes, landing on any surface nearby. He cries with the same gusto he does everything else in life. This morning he was trying so hard to not cry that my heart broke for him. 

"I wish God would give him back to us." he said. 
"I know." I agreed. "That would be a good thing. But being with God is the best thing."
"I wish I could be a super hero, so I could be strong and go up to heaven.  I could put Opa's body back together. I could glue all the pieces back and he would never have to die again."

If only we had that kind of glue.

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