Stop crying.
Adjust.
Adapt.
Grow up.
There have been other things that I always dreamed of doing but that were so bittersweet without him there to guide me. Things like
Buy a house.
Build a resume.
Walk down the aisle to marry the love of my life.
Have babies.
I've done so many things without him, things that would have been easier with his advice and assistance. I've painted rooms that would have been neater if he'd painted them. I've hung pictures that would have been straighter if he'd hung them.
One thing I can't bring myself to do without him, though, is gardening.
My father had the greenest of green thumbs.
He'd happily get up early to putter around in our yard, a very large green space by city standards. It gave him pleasure to get his hands dirty and watch his efforts literally bloom.
He planted tomatoes using a t-square. (I don't actually know what that means but it's legendary in our family.) He grew the most gloriously delicious green peppers because he knew they were my favorite.
He would photograph my brother and me in front of his gorgeous zinnias, posing us so that we were in the shot but not blocking his floral finery. People thought the pictures were of us, his beloved children. My mother knew the truth, though; they were pictures of his beloved flowers and we were just props to highlight them.
I carried daisies in my bridal bouquet because he grew them in abundance every year. I think of him, his dark head bent forward while he carefully weeded the flower beds, whenever I see a carefully tended front yard.
He sanded and painted and spackled because that's what he had to do. He gardened because that's what he wanted to do.
I just can't do it without him.
We had a front garden when we moved into this house. Tom ripped out the shrubs because they were dying and I had a landscaping service put grass down in their place because every time I tried to pull the weeds and make something nice out there, I sat in the dirt and cried for my father.
When I pull up to the house, I can feel my father shaking his head at how barren it looks. I'm sure the neighbors roll their eyes and wish we'd do something to make it look better.
But I don't. I can't.
I wouldn't know where to begin.
And he's not here to tell me.
So I don't even try.
Jack and Natalie are begging to plant flowers and vegetables. I put them off with vague promises of a future date where we will go to the gardening store for supplies.
It won't happen though. Not without someone to help me, advise me, tell me what to do.
Like he would.
Sometimes, the hardest part of being an adult is no longer having someone who tells you what to do. There is a certain comfort in being given orders and following them to the best of your abilities.
My Dad would have done that with me and my yard. After an appalled silence while he surveyed all that is lacking outside, he would have made a list, dragged me to Home Depot and then dug right in while I brought him Piels Lights and liverwurst sandwiches.
Just thinking about it, I can almost hear him cursing the neighborhood cats for the brown spots on our lawn like he did back home. How I would love to watch him guide my children as they planted marigolds in perfectly symmetrical holds.
When you first lose someone, the thought of all the empty tomorrows stretched out in front of you makes it seem like there is no way you can go on without him. But you can and you do. You expect that life's Big Moments will feel cold and empty without that person there to put his stamp of approval on them. You can't imagine that many years down the road, something as small and seemingly inconsequential as a patch of dirt could bring you to your knees.
But oh, how it does.
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