Bittersweet

Author's Note: My mother passed away May 6, 2013. I wrote this, and its companion piece, "Surreal", in those first months after her death.

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We have some excellent words in English: single words that can substitute an entire paragraph of descriptive text. "Bittersweet" is one such word, and it applied to today.

This morning at 9 am, my brother Michael and I met the movers at Mom's house. They brought back things that we had put in storage when Mom got sick and we first tried to sell the house. We did this primarily because I didn't want to have to deal with the house and everything in it after Mom died. We all see how well that worked out.

It's tough.

Physically, it's tough. It's hot outside. Moving and going through boxes in August in South Florida isn't anyone's idea of a Friday off from work.

Emotionally, though, it's much, much tougher.

Tough to rediscover great old memories between me and my brothers and realize that we have a dwindling number of people with whom we can share them. Tough to find my old toys, games, letters, report cards, stuffed animals -- and have to throw them away because they were rotted. Yellowed. Broken. Stinky with insect and rodent litter. Or simply because I just have no Goddamn room left in my own house.

Tough to read old love letters, cards or notes between my parents. One-liners suggesting those secret moments that married people share with each other, but rarely with their children. Secrets which are now dead with them both.

December, 1968: "I'll feed the grump, then go get malted milk balls."

I was "The Grump", or "Baby Grump", then seven months old. My dad was promising to help out by feeding me and then going to get a chocolate fix for Mom. She responded on the same page, folded it, and sent it with my older brother back to Dad. He then charmingly asked for something in return, the way a husband does from time to time...

I'm 45 now. I think, shit, he was barely an adult. But he was already my dad.

And he's already gone.

And so is Mom.

I'm bitter.

But then my Uncle John and Aunt Patty show up, having driven for days from Chicago to assist us with this most unpleasant task, and wanting nothing but to help family and spread love. They bring with them their own stories and memories.

And then Jannie shows up. Originally our administrative assistant, now a decades-long friend, she was there because she could be, and because she knew we'd need help. She was there because she's known us long enough to understand how tough this was going to be on her friends.

And there's that sweetness.

Bittersweet.

Even more so tonight, as I sit here unable to sleep (again), thinking about what our family has had to deal with this year. Thinking about the tasks still ahead. Ghoulishly wondering how long until my own children will be dealing with such things. Then thankful I have such an incredible wife and children, and glad for whatever time I might have left with them. Grateful for family and friends who know no other way than to be loving and helpful.

Bittersweet. One word.