Diary of a Widower

Go, go, go! Let’s not go

SUNDAY, December 20 – Yesterday Eamonn decided which clothes to take on our trip: a  small pile on the dining room floor consisting of a few shirts, jeans, and underwear.  A bathrobe and his blanket also go into the suitcase. He’s taking some books and his iPod Touch on board with him as well as blank pages to draw on.

This morning he was the first one up and dressed, while Sander claimed he was too sleepy and too busy to give me a hand.  While I stuffed items into the suitcase, Eamonn ran to the corner to mail some letters and then back home again. ‘Since the faster you run, the sooner we’ll be in the States.’

He was sitting on the front steps waiting for the taxi, while I was still wrestling with the last suitcase. They say that women always take more with them than men. Jennifer certainly didn’t, but the empty space in our third suitcase is suspicious. I’ve probably forgotten something important, but we’ll worry about that when we get to the States.

We arrived at Schiphol Airport in plenty of time. Once there, I had to take the taxi driver to task for his driving: not once but twice he kept going even though there were pedestrians trying to cross. I also told him why. He wasn’t impressed. There were long lines at the check-in desk, but we made it onto the plane, which was overbooked. Eamonn had run all the way to passport control.

Once we’d gone through security, Eamonn couldn’t wait to board. Only a few minutes late, the doors closed and I looked at my children with anticipation.  Sander on the aisle, Eamonn next to the window, and me in the middle. ‘Seven hours and fifty minutes, and then we’ll be landing, guys.  Isn’t this fun?’

Eamonn was looking out the window. When I leaned over his shoulder, I got the fright of my life. He was crying his eyes out. Not making any sound. I put my head cautiously on his left shoulder blade, pushed my hand under his elbow and took hold of his fingers. Gently I rubbed his palm and planted a kiss on his hair.

After a few minutes he turned to me: ‘Papa, can’t we stay home? I don’t really feel like going to America.’

Ten minutes later, his grief had evaporated. That’s how fast things can change  when you’re dealing with children, I think to myself. Usually to my relief, but occasionally in exasperation. You’ve just opened a conversation with a bit of depth and they can’t wait to switch to some stupid video game. Like after this crying bout he decided that the first thing he was going to do at Grandpa and Grandma’s was to shovel the snow from their driveway.

Kicking Oma out of the house

SATURDAY, December 19 – I just asked my mother to leave the house. It had absolutely nothing to do with her, well-intentioned as she is, but I could not abide her presence in the house for one more minute.

It would have been the same with anyone else. She arrived yesterday and wanted to stay for an extra night. Suddenly, something snapped in me. Four people in my house and none of them Jennifer.  Impossible.

It was horrible to have to tell her that it would be better if she left, but in the end it was better. For all of us. I’d come close to saying things that I would regret later on. She phoned to say she was home, as she always did and I let the phone go to voice mail.

15:00 – We’re in the park and I see Eamonn racing in our direction. Then suddenly he skids on the frozen ground and hits the back of his head. For an instant we stand there, petrified. The back of his head. Then he gets up, pulls a face, and says, ‘Don’t worry. I’m okay. And I still have my sense of humor.’

22:30 – That same conversation again with Sander. About death, about not knowing, about the explanations we search for and can’t find. It’s wearing, the interminable repetition of useless information, but I don’t lose my patience. Then there’s a pause. Sander is about to tell me something.

‘You know what, Papa? Last night when everyone was asleep, even the dog and the cat, I woke up and saw this blue light floating through the hall. It went straight into Eamonn’s room. I saw it, and then suddenly it was gone.’

I don’t say anything, waiting for more. Sander: ‘I think it was Mom.’

He admits that he was a bit scared. I tell him that it’s ‘a very special experience’. And that he should try to treasure such moments, even though we don’t know what it was or what it meant.

I’m reminded of something Jennifer told me. How once, in the middle of the night, she woke up and saw my father appear in a corner of the bedroom.  How he looked at us, and kept looking, and that he saw that it was good. Later on, when Jenn told my sister-in-law L about it, she was ecstatic. L had had the very same experience years before.

As far as I’m concerned, Jennifer is more than welcome to come by and take a look at her boys. In whatever way and in whatever form she chooses.