Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I was watching one of my favorite shows on TV the other day and there was a story about a widower getting married. He was having a conversation with his Godfather on the morning of the wedding, and he was talking about his first wife, Rebecca.
"Rebecca’s on my mind all the time now that I’m getting married again. And the longer she’s gone, the more perfect she becomes when I think about her. You know, but the truth is, she was beautifully human. Never hung up a damp towel in her life. Never filled up the car when the gauge was on “E”, and every once in a while she would use the word “impact” as a verb. And I would do anything to bring her back, but I can’t. And I don’t want to be alone."
First, I need to say kudos to the writers for this monologue. If that writer has not lost a spouse, I’d be very surprised because I could not believe the way he or she captured the feelings of a grieving spouse.
The monologue makes two points that really resonated with me. First, he admits that Rebecca was not perfect. I can definitely say that Bobby was not perfect. He left socks on the floor, toothpaste in the bathroom sink, dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, and for some unknown reason that I could never figure out, he would put his dirty clothes on top of the hamper instead of inside of it. But even though these are true, he does become more perfect as every day goes by that he is gone, and I would give anything to see those socks on the floor again.
I am also happy with the way the writer of this show acknowledges that the widower would do anything to bring back Rebecca, even though he is marrying his fiancée that day, whom he does truly love. I don’t know any widow or widower, no matter how much in love they may be with their new partner, saying or even thinking, “Boy, am I glad so-and-so died, because if they didn’t, I wouldn’t have met so-and-so.” This might sound harsh, but it is how I feel. So it was refreshing to see a widower (albeit a fictional one) admit those feelings, even on his wedding day.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
I decided on a whim this evening to take my younger son to The Lone Star Steakhouse for dinner. We hadn't been there in a while, in fact, the last time we were there was with Bobby. The place was packed, which I thought was a little unusual for a Sunday night, and we were told there was a 15-20 minute wait. So we waited.
When we were seated, the server introduced herself (Kelly) and told us immediately, "We are out of a lot of things on the menu. Tonight is our last night."
"Forever?" I asked, a little confused.
"Yes, forever. They just told us last week we are closing. They are tearing down the building to build a Buffalo Bill's Brewery,” she explained.
Under normal circumstances, this would not bother me. But under my abnormal circumstances, tonight it did. Not because I'm a big fan of the Lone Star Steakhouse, but because Bobby and I made a wonderful memory there about 13 years ago when our oldest was just a baby. We went to eat there, and my son had his first piece of pumpernickel bread. He gnawed on that bread forever, and it was so cute. We got such a kick out of it, and talked about it for years to come, entertaining our now-14-year-old with the story.
I remember where we sat in the restaurant that night. I remember looking at my son in the high-chair, which was pushed up against the booth. I remember that it was also our first time at the Lone Star, and how much we loved their pumpernickel bread that they served warm.
It made me realize something: the memories that Bobby and I made are finite. Now, I know we are all mortal and everything that we do is finite, but in my case, the end has already come and gone, and no more memories will be made, and I'm young enough for it to bother me. And now, one of the places that reminded me of a wonderful memory is going to be torn down. It made me realize another cold hard truth...that one by one, the memories are all going to be torn down, and no new ones will be made to take their places.
I never knew the Lone Star Steakhouse could make me so sad.