File That

I hang up and text Charlotte. Give her a few bulleted tidbits of information. She writes back that they are all insane. I guess we’ve known that for a while.

I think about J.’s girls and my heart goes out to them. So young to lose a parent. So young to have had to come to the realizations that they’ve reached. Much as I did in my marriage to Lars, they’ve had to realize that much of the demise of the person they loved was by his own hand. And on some level, he chose his vices over them, just as Lars had chosen his over me and our children. Very painful realizations, and piled higher and deeper by his death.

I am hopeful for their sake that eventually they remember his good qualities and salvage fond memories. I am praying that they make peace with all that has happened. There is much to try to forget.

And all of this hoping and praying has me thinking of my own Dad. This and a Neil Diamond song.

My swim club has a funny little ritual, presumably courtesy of the college-aged lifeguards. They think it is a total riot to turn off the classic rock station that pipes throughout the grounds when it is time for Adult Swim. At that time, they play such Old Timer classics as Barry Manilow, Elvis, Anne Murray, and Neil Diamond. And an occasional Englebert Humperdink. Like my parents are in the pool.

So as I sit with my fanny in a beach chair on Sunday, reading a novel and letting the warmth of the sun soothe me, here comes Neil Diamond singing sincerely as ever about the story of his life.

And I am transported once again to my childhood. This song always made me sad. It is a lovely song. A little sappy for my tastes, but a nice sentiment.

And I always thought that it must be the way my Dad felt when my parents’ marriage ended. It was as though his life did too.

Sure he was a trooper…jumped in and grabbed the reigns and made life in our house as close to what it should have been as he could.

But his personal life? There wasn’t one. He very rarely dated. His occasional golf outings included my brother (no fun there) He had no hobbies. He sold his football season tickets. He worked, ate, slept, read the paper, mowed the lawn.

Had his life in his estimation ended when my mother left? The touch of sadness he seemed to always carry with him suggested to my melodramatic teenaged self that maybe it had. His loneliness was hard to watch. It probably had very little to do with Estelle herself, but at the age of 15, that was the way I called it.

Years later, when we laid him to rest, it was perhaps my mother who grieved the most. Over time they’d become friends. Looked out for one another. Spoke to one another regularly. For no reason. Her loss was so genuine. Mom drove across the famous colonies that divide us to attend his funeral, connect with his old friends, talk fondly about him.

And by contrast, I am voluntarily skipping J.’s funeral. Nothing compels me to attend. It barely registers that it has been planned. I have no heartwarming stories to tell anymore. I have no kind words to say. I’d prefer not to forfeit a PTO day for something that seems so meaningless now. I have no need to pay my respects. Outside of Abby and Moira and Sandy, I have no respects to pay. I have to agree with my old friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hatred. It is indifference.

I am a little shocked at my indifference. What a long way I've come since J. first went careening around the bend. But to be truthful to myself, I must file this under Mama Don’t Give A Damn.