Strange Complaints

In a week I’m going to be older than my mother ever was. Three weeks after that I’ll be older than my father ever was.

My mother was both a quiet woman and the loudest you’ve ever experienced. She loved to laugh and have a good time making others laugh, but she was also the most withdrawn person I’ve ever known who kept every frustration and disappointment to herself, never burdening others.

It was over a year after her cancer diagnosis before she ever told anyone else other than her younger sister, and that includes her children.

My dad was this quiet mountain of a man who also loved to laugh, especially with family. He and his father could have everyone in stitches during the holidays as the drinks and stories flowed out of them.

Needless to say, they are both in my thoughts lately.

I wish I could say I had tons of memories of them both but if I’m being honest I think the older I get the less I trust what I believe to be memories. More and more I think they are memories of the stories I’ve told about those memories and not the thing itself.

Memories of my mother include sitting in the front seat between her and my father and being tired so she let me put my head in her lap as I fell asleep while dad drove us home. They include laughter on weekends where my two cousins - best friends in childhood - would come spend time at our house and my mom would go out of her way to make sure we were having fun together.

Memories of my father include sitting in his lap and driving his truck for a bit on visits to Cameron parish where the roads were long, straight and empty except for wandering cattle. They include laughter and water spraying through the air as we rode on his fishing boat in search of a great afternoon spent together and fried fish for supper in the evening.

It didn’t matter that neither of us knew how to swim. I always felt safe in the water with him.

Those days are gone, though.

I’m not quite sure how the world is still spinning without them or how time has the audacity to keep going on in their absence. 

For those of you who are also missing parents, my condolences and love to you all. The ache never truly leaves you, or at least it's never done so for me. Perhaps that’s because I still talk to them all the time?

They never answer back but then again my mother did once tell me when I complained she never answered my calls, that her cell phone was for her to call me and not the other way around.

Anyways, here to memories - faulty or not.

Until later…