reaching

I've been struggling a bit. We all have. As Jane so poignantly descibed yesterday:

"I feel so down today - you know that kind of day when your grief is right up under your eyelashes and the second anyone sneezes at you you start to cry? That's how I"m feeling today."

Aw, Janey.

Your girls are hurting, Dad. I'm sorry that you're getting yelled at by so many of us this week, but we're all pretty peeved with you. Espcially mom, who is having to deal with remodeling and selling a car and beurocracy and other nonsense that was strictly your gig.  

I was feeling awful yesterday, too. I can't sleep and I'm so emotional and snappy all the time. And when I woke up Thursday morning knowing that I had to face the day, I protested. My exact words to my family were: "I'm not going. Fuck 'em." 

It was a good move, I needed it. And I decided to tackle the beast of my girl's closet while I had the house all to myself. I wanted to yell at you for not being here to help me with the stupid closet, but I knew that we needed you watching over our Quito girl that day, so I let you off the hook.

To start the closet, I reached for something up on the high shelf while standing on this stool.

It jogged a memory, Dad. I had to abandon my project before it had even begun, because I needed to find this:



My baby boy's baby book



I knew that what I was looking for was tucked in the sweet little ribbon-tied envelope up top.






There it is

  

It's the letter you wrote to my boy when you sent him that stool you had made. He was eight months old. 



click to enlarge


I am devastated that he's lost you, Dad. I'm devastated that I've lost you. And my girl, and your girls.

But thanks for helping me reach that top shelf.

Now do me a favor and help mom out with that bathroom, okay? This is bullshit.

I love you.