JANUARY 26, 2022 – Every child, it seems, is put on the earth to bring grief, sorrow, heartbreak and yes . . . love and sweet joy to the child’s parents. Lately, I’ve been thinking about this combination of feelings for which I’m responsible.
My parents have resided outside the instant realm for a while now. They are oblivious to their wayward child’s current predicament, though I often imagine them encountering my plight and struggling to process it. Dash the thought that I would now cause them an ounce of additional worry or pain, as I moan into the darkness. Yet, somehow, I cannot erase from memory all the times that our dad would say, “Stackars [name of child] to my sisters or me after a stubbed toe or scraped knee. Invariably, that Swedish word of pity took the pain away.
Long gone is the spontaneous voice that said, “Stackars,” but close is the memory of it. And I’m left to contemplate the unspeakable pain that Dad himself endured through his undiagnosed disease—the same one that now afflicts me, and what little I did to alleviate his suffering. I never said, “Stackars” to Dad. Nor did I ever sooth my mother’s suffering by emulating the graceful sweep of her hand across her temple. How very much now, I wish I could say, “I’m sorry.”
Fortunately, I brought my parents joy, as well. I’m sure of it. I can even remember specific circumstances.
But then there was the moment that caused only grief; big, serious, selfish grief. In my insistence, I hurt my mother terribly, and it showed. Worse, I was angry and disappointed that she didn’t understand. Dad, a stoic, whom I believe understood exactly what motivated me, acquiesced in my youthful irresponsibility. Given all I knew about him, I knew that deep down, he shared my dreams—and in the conflict they produced. He never tried to change my mind, and for that I respected him beyond the words then available to me.
Years later, Mother told me she was convinced she’d never see me again. Still mired in selfishness, I’d matured enough to grasp those riveting words as she uttered them, and I shuttered silently.
At the time of my departure, Mother was 1,200 miles away—tending to the age-old needs of her parents; “old age” matters that I could observe but for which I’d acquired no empathy. I was focused on self and my mission in life.
Thus, it fell to Dad to drive me to the airport. It was upon his parental shoulders to carry Mother’s burden. It was left to Dad to say, “Good luck, be safe, stay in touch.”
Thus, at the airport, it was for Dad to say farewell and hope to hell he’d see me again.
Off I went, fancy free, dreaming of everything, prepared for nothing. In the prime of youth, I flung myself headlong into the big unknown.
If either of my parents cried that day, I didn’t see or think of their tears.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
