Yesterday. I call it Insanity.
After struggling to remember where my 8×10 framed photo of dad kissing my cheek in the reception line of my first wedding; the only photo displaying demonstrative affection between us as adults, although dad is the love of my life! I pause, as I do not say or write that lightly, but more so with a heavy heart as I miss Dad more every day since he died May 4, 1977, of a sudden heart attack. No chance for goodbyes. For I love you.
I searched upstairs, downstairs, returning while feeling a slow burning desperation, after perusing 100 plus framed photos of mostly family, some human friends integrated with nature friends, like waterfalls and flowers.
Upstairs. Downstairs. Again.
It is the same day I test positive for covid (a third time), a late bloomer after many of the 16 Mostly Motown singers had tested positive. The first person red-lined the day after our concert. Maybe the timing can be lucky – after I had fought steadfastly, begged twice, to sing my two short, assigned solos: Oh Donna, and Sweet Baby James. The director had emailed that he would reassign my solos as I had not sung them well enough at rehearsal, although others had stumbled too. Mostly Motown is an amateur community singing group of mostly seniors. Golden agers.
I need to develop my self-confidence I email back as I have not sung in a group for 20 years and had messed up a Supreme’s song at a concert back then. I begged. Twice. I had something to prove. To myself.
After our concert on Mother’s Day, Annie (another singer) said I sang great and when my 33-year-old granddaughter who lives in Spain heard the video, texted: “amazing singing.”
A week later, I turned light-headed after returning home on my scooter. I lay down for a few minutes, then walked my slice of pizza to the toaster oven. Before I knew what hit me, my forehead knocks the freezer door, then the back of my head whams the sharp edge of its handle – branding a colorful bruise front and back. Why didn’t I fall? Only the pizza slice fell.
Is the Universe trying to knock some sense into me? To become increasingly vulnerable as I was hesitant to test for covid after nearly a week of being asymptomatic. And to text my eldest daughter, “Did I give you my wedding album?” of my first marriage to the father of my two daughters, when I moved last summer? “It’s very important to me, temporarily.” So, I can replace the 8×10 and my memory of where it vanished, my brain knowing I had taken it somewhere. I hadn’t planned to tell her I had covid but added so after she replied that she did not have the album but did have the one of our honeymoon, including photos of her dad in a college gospel quartet, The Defenders. Erin responds: “Oh no! Make sure you eat and drink fluids! Let me know if you need anything.”
This is the daughter who has not told me she loves me and has not written it since she was a teenager. But I am positive I feel her love as tears appear at this moment. And now I realize she writes like my dad had every week in his letters to me while in nursing school; although he did not tell me he loved me face to face, this same day, I happen to read another of his letters, of which I have over a 100 and from which I am writing Our Love Story.
Most of dad’s letters conclude: some version of “take good care of yourself, eat well, and get enough sleep, Love, Dad.” Today, I read “I love you, Diane. Your Dad,” my eyelids steamy. Rigorous honesty opening springs of tears.
The next morning, while waking up in bed, for 30 plus minutes thoughts enter, my liminal unconsciousness enlightening me, as I suddenly remember where my two precious 8×10 framed photos are – with my book graphic designer. What a heart punch! When we meet to return these precious photos to my hands, I see that it is me kissing dad on the cheek, not the other way around. Maybe his kiss is returned to the other side of my cheek.
Maybe being at the threshold of love? Returning from Forgetting to Insanity to Enlightenment?