Gone

I have found myself to be in a "hunkering down" kind of mood this week. I think the reality of the finality has finally hit me. I am only responsible for myself, Kirk, and the kids at this point in my life, after many years of considering my parents and their needs, and it is a weird feeling. I'm not sure what to do with it or myself.

I spent the last three days going through paperwork and photographs that I brought home from Dad's over the course of the last few months. There are family tree things, cards, letters, First Communion certificates, military papers, etc. I had several filled laundry baskets that had been sitting in our room for months now waiting until I had time to sort through them, which I finally did this week.

It was almost surreal to read postcards from my grandfather (dead 52 years now) to my dad (also dead) written when my dad was a little boy in 1937. There were pictures of my grandfather's family, the corners of the photos snug in the little black triangles in an album, taken in 1909 before he had even met my grandmother. Then as I flipped through the pages, I began to see her smiling face, a young woman in a new country being courted by a handsome Irishman. There were pictures taken at Rockaway Beach but no names to identify the folks posing for the camera on the wooden steps of a beach house. I could pick out my grandpa but I have no idea who the others were.

I found notes left by Dad for Mom telling her that he'd gone to the store and would be back in an hour and that he loved her. There was a note from me to Mom one day in 1974. I was mad at her because she wouldn't let me wear shorts in March, and the note was complaining that everyone else would be wearing shorts except me, and I would have to wear long "pance."

I found an engagement card to my mom from my dad's Aunt Josephine. She was kind to my mom, and I wish I remembered her better. There was a copy of my grandma's will and a letter from Aunt Nanette explaining her side of the event that has estranged her from her sister Marie since 1980. There was a letter from Marie to Dad that started out sweet and then ended up hateful and cruel, full of the crazy that has caused such strife in the Fitzpatrick family for decades.

I read letters from me to Dad and from Kirk to Dad. There was a letter I wrote when I was at summer camp in the 6th grade. It's the same camp Kyle went to when he was in the 6th grade. There were cards with zigzag scratches for signatures and "love, Sharron" or "love, Kyle" written in cursive underneath.

The paperwork for the sale of Granny's house was in a folder along with pictures of the many Christmas Eves we celebrated there. Faces long dead stared out at me from the 4 X4 black and white photograph, and I remembered the fun we had in that 4 room house, the front door propped open to let in some air because it got so hot that steam ran in rivulets down the windows in the family room.

I wondered what was it about this card or this note that made it special enough to be saved for so long. What was Mom thinking? Dad? And if they had saved them, then shouldn't I?

All of this washed over me this week; all of these memories and connections, and the reality that everything and everyone is GONE was just too overwhelming. I retreated into my "safe spot" where I can function without thinking too much and didn't come near the computer except to read. I was afraid if I started typing, I wouldn't be able to stop and all of my sadness would just come flowing out.

I finally went to my parents' grave yesterday. I haven't been since the day we buried Dad. I took a rock that has a shamrock on it and says, "Irish Blessings." I looked for and found my grandparents' grave as well. I visit Granny and Grandpa's grave whenever I go to the cemetery, but I've never been able to find Mimi and Poppy's. I stopped in the office and asked for explicit directions and finally, after over 30 years, I found theirs too. I needed to connect with them in someway, and that was as close as I was going to get. It was good, and I'm glad I found them. I saw Uncle Bob's grave and reflected there too.

I have never felt so alone as I do now. It is a sad and lonesome feeling, and I'm not sure what to do with myself.