Oh my. Yesterday was the first Thursday since Georg died that I did not post. I literally forgot the significance of Thursday. I was busy as usual this past week, but up until now, no matter how busy I was on a Wednesday night, I had always made a point to start readying a post for the next morning. Not this week. I remember thinking about it on Tuesday or so, and then the whole thing just slipped my mind as I got involved in a myriad of other things.
I suppose this is a good sign. This means that I am not brooding over my father’s death and religiously locking myself into feeling his absence on Thursdays, on every Thursday for the rest of my life. What a waste of Thursdays that would be!
So, now it is Friday. The end of the week. I should be happy. Tomorrow, though, I will continue to work on moving everything out of Georg’s studio into a smaller storage space, luckily in the same building. This move has been hard for me. It is just physically overwhelming, even with strong-armed helpers. There is a lot of large, heavy art. But, more than that, it is emotionally very difficult. I feel like I am taking 76 years of life, of my dad’s very large and exuberant life, and cramming it all into a room that is 25 x 16 feet. It doesn’t feel very good. I feel like I am putting him and his brilliance into a tomb. It is heart breaking, really.
We began the process last Saturday and got a good start. My son Owen was with me and was a huge help, as were my friends Rob and Felix. At one point, Owen and I were moving a tall utility shelf out of our way, and a long metal tube rolled off the top of the shelf and hit us both on the head. I immediately burst into tears. It hurt. It was also scary. (I literally did not know at first what had hit me. Was it a pipe? An axe? A javelin?) And in some strange way, it was also humiliating. Why is the Universe bonking me on the head when I am trying so hard to take care of things for my dad?
Owen said, “why are you crying, Mom? I got hit too. It didn’t hurt that much.” Then he patted my shoulder very compassionately.
Oh, from the mouths of teens. He was right. It did not hurt that much. It was just very startling. And, it reminded me of the enormity of what we are doing. Rob said to me later, “Lisa, you cannot expect to make sense of you dad’s life in a month, or even three months. You are doing everything right. It is going to take a long, long time, but you will do it.”
Oh, from the mouths of wise friends. Everyone sees what is going on here, but sometimes I do not. I am grieving. I may appear happy now and then, and I may forget that it is Thursday, (or any day of the week without Georg), but underneath it all, I am very sad that my wonderful and amazing father is gone. Never to return.
Well now, just a minute there, Missy. Think again.
Every time I cook up a yummy dinner for a small group of friends (like I did last Saturday night), my dad is there. Every time I go to a museum, my dad is at my side. Every time I put pen to paper to write a poem. Dad. Look at Lake Michigan or any large body of water? Dad. See a flock of starlings? Dad. Fry up a pan of onions? Of course, Dad. Dad is everywhere and nowhere. My dad is gone but he is right here, and he will be that way for me forever, no matter what day of the week it is, and no matter what hurtful and startling things may fall upon my head.
Thanks, Dad. Happy Valentines Day. I am one day late with this blog post, but I know you are here and I know you are not counting.