My son was tender with his sister, born almost five years after him. He let her have the attention, and he was very patient with her.
For months after my son died, I would open the refrigerator, look, and then close the door, without taking anything out. I was too tired to eat. Now when I eat, I cannot stop, trying to fill something missing inside. I still open and close the refrigerator, but my “go-to” is anything chocolate, ice cream, and wine. A bonus is when I combine ice cream and chocolate in one bowl.
I have noticed clothes are back to fitting the way they used to, before my son died, meaning I am gaining weight. I know something will need to change, but as Scarlet O’Hara said, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Meaning, I will deal with the weight gain later.
My daughter, and her friend, who was visiting for a long weekend, had not seen the movie, Gone With The Wind (1939 Academy Award, best picture, adapted from the novel by Margaret Mitchell,1936, set in the Confederate South during the Civil War). I saw it when I was in grade school and loved it. My older sister took me to see it in the small-town theater located in NE, where we lived. At intermission, while waiting in line at the concession counter, an older gentleman said he was impressed I could last through such a long movie. I was thinking, “It is awesome.” My daughter, who loves old movies, shared she did not like how Scarlett was portrayed nor that her relationship with Rhett Butler ended unresolved, leaving us unknowing if they will live happily ever after. She said it was a waste of three-and-a-half hours. My love for Gone With The Wind is something I will not be able to share and enjoy with my daughter, but I think I am okay with it.
My son’s friends told me that he loved his sister, always talking so highly about her. He proudly displayed her artwork in his apartment.
My son’s friends told me that he loved his sister, always talking so highly about her. He proudly displayed her artwork in his apartment. She told him he could take whichever pieces he wanted. He first took three canvases that she painted of one scene (technically defined as a triptych, which is a work of art that is divided into three sections). The subject is the “Tunnel View,” perhaps the most famous view in Yosemite National Park. The four of us, he, his dad, sister, and me, went there in August of 2016. It was a fantastic trip even amidst our arguing. He and his dad wanted to hike in, to the top of a rock dome before dawn, to be on top before the sun rose. As a mom, I thought it was unsafe, and it would delay our next stop, which in hindsight, was so not worth what they gave up. It was a once in a lifetime chance to do something exciting. It is one of my regrets.
He later took another painting, this one an abstract. His sister had done several abstracts for a high school art class. The three of us went through her artwork together. I pointed out one I loved for the colors, but I could not bring myself to hang it in the central part of the house. I said it reminded me of the female genitalia. They both laughed because they were thinking the same thing, and I think I shocked them because I said it out loud. It is still in the back closet.
One of his friends kept the Yosemite paintings, and they now hang in the house where four of them live. My son was looking for homes for all of them to live in the right before his death. After his death, he would continue to receive daily email messages of rental availabilities. I let the emails keep coming for a while, thinking there would be some deeply embedded connection to him, but now, I have unsubscribed to them.
He wished he could have spent more time with her.
We took videos of our children growing up, discontinuing sometime when they were in grade school. Perhaps it was when the camera stopped working, or when phones with cameras became available, or they started to protest being videotaped. After my son’s death, I had them transferred into a medium that we can watch with the latest technology.
Watching this pictorial history is painful right now, but what I did notice was how much tenderness my son had with his sister, born almost five years after him. He let her have the attention, and he was very patient with her. One of his friends told me my son once expressed a wish for more closeness in age to his sister’s, so they could have spent more time together.. When our children were in grade school together, my daughter would call out to him when they passed in the hall. I think this made him embarrassed and fearful of being teased by his classmates. What brother wouldn’t be embarrassed?
After we got home from the bookstore, I found my daughter later that day, up in the attic reading her collection of books from childhood.
My daughter and I recently went children’s book shopping for a baby shower gift. She loves buying books because she has fond memories of my reading to her. I read books to both of my children. I love children’s books, and I enjoyed taking my children to the library, going through the bins of books with them. For a while, it became an obsession. On Friday evenings, with a glass of wine, I would read through the library catalog online, reserving books. She has kept her favorite books in boxes in the attic.
In our video library, I found pictures of my son in her crib reading a book to her. The next day we were going to the state fair, and he was reading to her to encourage slowing down, so she could go to sleep. He read, The Monster at the End of This Book(Jon Stone, 1971, Golden Books). It was one of my favorite books to read to them because the content encourages the reader to do voices. My son was a slow reader, but she did not care.
Both of my children were slow readers, but that is not an indication of intelligence. My sister was a slower reader, and she is now an attorney, having passed the bar exam the first time. My daughter went on to become a member of the National Collegiate Honors Society, studying to be an architect. He never knew she got into the architect program. Hopefully, he does now, where ever he is at; maybe he had a hand in giving her the strength to meet the university’s requirements for acceptance into the architecture program.
After we got home from the bookstore, I found my daughter later that day, up in the attic reading her collection of books from childhood.
