Missing My Parents

Jack and Fanny Kaufman  June 1952

  Less than ten months ago, both my parents were still alive on earth.  At 93 and 90, respectively, I figured they were pretty strong and would be with us a few more years.  But God had other plans.

I remember a friend telling me about her season of caring for aging parents, about driving them here and there, about their living in her home, and her being their primary caretaker.  While home schooling her children, helping her husband's business, and caring for parents, she felt her life was so full she couldn't see the end of it. 
It was non-stop pressure for her, and she felt the weight of it keenly.  But as I was sharing with her about my duties of running about taking care of my parents, and my children and my fatigue, she quietly and solemnly spoke these words: "You wake up one day, and they're gone.  All of a sudden, it's over."

Very true.  While in the midst of the sound and fury, signifying all the world at the moment, you open your eyes, you receive that call, you open the door, and those dear ones over whom you labored and wept are gone. 

Then come the wandering days: you wonder as you wander about, unable to focus on the new normal.  You begin thinking about the "never agains:" never again will you hear their greeting, their peculiar phrases, their words of wisdom.  Never again will you receive the gaze of a parent to his beloved child.  And gone are the shared moments that you cannot have with anyone else in the world.
No one else understands that press of the hand, the personal joke, the history behind the little bits of childhood verse.  Tears flow, and wisdom dictates to let them come.  They clean the heart, and melt away the inhuman in us.

The memories start knocking at the doors to our souls, and, if we're wise, we let them in, and allow them to dwell with us, and establish rooms with us.  They're quiet, those "memory-tenants."  They don't ask for much, but they do pour out much balm and offer kind words amid the tears.  They bring a kind of comfort in the night: to have known, to have loved, to have been loved.

I miss my parents.  They were good parents, and I am grateful for them.  They gave many lasting  gifts to their family.  I hope that the good legacy they unwittingly passed down to us will be filtered through the sands of time and show up in future generations. With 3 children and 9 grandchildren, perhaps some of the truth, goodness and beauty of their lives will have an influence, and color future peoples with their particular shades and hues.

 Au revoir Pa  (August 23, 1925 - November 29, 2018)
 Au revoir Ma    (May 5, 1928 - September 19, 2019)

Your children love you and miss you.   And we certainly won't forget you.  No : "A coup de petoche, I have a record garage" will live on... And so shall "Alors Ma!"