Punching at our sad reality
THURSDAY, June 3 – Bought a punching bag today, with three pairs of gloves. To work off our anger and frustration. Eamonn goes first, but quickly throws himself face-down onto the bed, in tears. ‘What I realize is that Mom will never see us grow up.’
I know, Eamonn. I know.
I often think of my father who never saw me grow up either. He sees the connection. ‘That’s really sad,’ he says, as he considers what that means in the here and now, ‘because you have a really good position at work.’ And I add, ‘But also because my father never saw what great boys you are.’
His boxing gloves feel soft and smooth against my shoulder blades. For now, no more blows fall.
Diary of a Widower 