When your own prompt is a punch to the gut, you know you're onto something. I actually had two flashbulb moments that kept repeating--one a happy memory of my early days with John, a super sweet story, and the other a not-so-happy memory of my grandfather's funeral. I want to write about the memory that makes me smile, but I need to write about the one that puts a lump in my throat.
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Bampa. The faded ribbon with gold glitter lettering still sits in a photo album next to the bereavement card stamped with Psalm 23 and a rare picture of him with my sister, Kendra, and I. Not a great picture, but it's the one I have. Second only to my dad, he was the most important man in my life, one who instilled a sense of self-reliance in me.
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Nine years old. Walking through the sanctuary doors full of dread and fear. I don't want to see him in there I thought as I caught a glimpse of the satin-lined coffin up front, its lid hinged open. As we walked up as a family, the pit in the stomach grew bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow me whole--if only it had.
It was our turn. I stayed as far away as I could while my mom approached the coffin. And, then, she did the unthinkable. She kissed him and laid her head on his chest. "I'm miss you, Daddy," she choked out between sobs. Stop touching him! He's dead!
I don't remember much after that. I think I was made to look, to say my final goodbyes--for closure's sake I suppose.
That wound didn't fully close. Maybe now.
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PS: I thought about digging up that photo album, but I couldn't bear to do it in this moment.
