Housework, Inner Work

I have the day off today. I had the intention of using it to study for my final exam, but that was rescheduled for next week because of all the Midwest power-outages, my school hasn’t had power all week.

So I started cleaning the house, which is in a constant state of disarray. I woke up this morning and felt like the storm had hit the inside of our house. Clothing strewn everywhere, dishes in every room, blankets draped upon every couch and chair (I carry them around the house which is kept at below freezing levels for my husband.)

I began to go through stacks of papers that have piled up throughout the last year.

The last year. I hate this year. I hate the past 365 days. It was probably around this time last year my sister sat at dinner with me and said, “I think there might be something wrong with Daddy.” I, ever the skeptic, shrugged it off. He’s superman. I actually thought of the Ouija board game I used to play as a young girl. Of course I asked when my parents would die. I had memorized the age my father would die. 86. That sounded fair. Not 60. Stupid Ouija board.

Please don’t misunderstand. I also love this year. I love the growth, I love the love I have in my marriage, the support of friends and family. I have had remarkable, miraculous things happen.

These states can co-exist. But like a Michigan summer storm, when hot air meets a cold front, raging winds and rain burst through without warning. And this has been my inner state, sometimes my happy life collides with a broken piece of my past and a turbulent, fierce, and fascinating emotional rollercoaster emerges.

Today’s was finding stacks of papers, piles of my life, waiting for me to return and say, “This is complete.” I leave them there because…I cannot go through my house, my new house, with my new husband without finding my father there. A pile of my sheet music revealed some administrative form with his name on it. Even going through my bathroom, my drawer of nail supplies reveals the kit he bought me at the mall one day, you know, those booths where they shine your nails? He bought me and my sister a kit of nail buffers and hand lotion.

He was so excited about it too. He was so thrilled with the buff and shine technology. He showed us how on his own thumbnail. I remember, looking at his manly, rough, and weathered hand, with the one glossy thumbnail. I miss that. I miss him. I cannot get over that he’s gone.

I know I’ve probably said all I can say out loud about missing him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel it. Every day. I may not notice it as much because it’s all part of the landscape. He is gone. But his absence is real. It is now a living thing. I don’t know if anyone knows what I’m talking about, but if you’ve lost someone you love, I’m guessing you do.

The ache does not disappear, it just integrates itself. Like if they cut off your arm. You would know, every day for the rest of your life it is gone. You have to do everything differently, you are not the same, even though you do the same things. You might even be able to do more, in some odd way. Death doesn’t impose limitations. It expands you. It shows you a part of yourself that has remained hidden, because you haven’t yet needed it.

Sometimes I can’t handle his absence. Sometimes I just wish he’d come back, as if he’s been on a vacation for too long. Sometimes I’m angry, sometimes I’m guilty.

And today, he’s everywhere with me in this house. I’m alone, and he is here.