Winter Is Here, But You're Not
Dear Rachel,
When I awoke this morning, the temperature had dropped to 16˚ and the neighborhood huddled beneath a fresh blanket of snow. It was beautiful, of course, but cold. (Of course, in Nebraska, 16˚ is deemed merely “chilly.” It’s not cold unless there’s a negative sign involved. Or so say the natives.)
Standing out on the porch with my morning coffee and cigarette reminded me of when you and Amy would visit during Christmas, you from Virginia and Amy from Texas. For the week or so you kids were there, you’d be wrapped in blankets and afghans, and you’d curl up on the couch, wearing warm PJs and fleecy robes. One of you would ask, “So, tell me again, why do you live here?” and then the two of you would look at each other and roll your eyes. Neither one of you could understand why we liked it here in Nebraska, and it was always fun to poke fun at us “rubes” who didn’t know enough to live where it was warm.
I miss that so much: the bantering (“Hey, at least in Virginia we don’t get stuck behind a tractor on the freeway.”), the whispering (“You talk to him while I sneak down to the basement and wrap the present!”), listening to you and Lesley talk like the old friends that you had become (rather than the wary stepmother and surly stepdaughter you were at the beginning), the bleary-eyed opening of presents on Christmas morning. (“Can we at least have some coffee first?!”)
I can’t believe that this Christmas will come and go without you here. I haven’t had a Christmas without you in 24 years. I’m so glad that Amy will be here. I hope I don’t get all mushy and cry. Or maybe that’s OK, and we’ll all cry together.
Love,
Dad
When I awoke this morning, the temperature had dropped to 16˚ and the neighborhood huddled beneath a fresh blanket of snow. It was beautiful, of course, but cold. (Of course, in Nebraska, 16˚ is deemed merely “chilly.” It’s not cold unless there’s a negative sign involved. Or so say the natives.)
Standing out on the porch with my morning coffee and cigarette reminded me of when you and Amy would visit during Christmas, you from Virginia and Amy from Texas. For the week or so you kids were there, you’d be wrapped in blankets and afghans, and you’d curl up on the couch, wearing warm PJs and fleecy robes. One of you would ask, “So, tell me again, why do you live here?” and then the two of you would look at each other and roll your eyes. Neither one of you could understand why we liked it here in Nebraska, and it was always fun to poke fun at us “rubes” who didn’t know enough to live where it was warm.
I miss that so much: the bantering (“Hey, at least in Virginia we don’t get stuck behind a tractor on the freeway.”), the whispering (“You talk to him while I sneak down to the basement and wrap the present!”), listening to you and Lesley talk like the old friends that you had become (rather than the wary stepmother and surly stepdaughter you were at the beginning), the bleary-eyed opening of presents on Christmas morning. (“Can we at least have some coffee first?!”)
I can’t believe that this Christmas will come and go without you here. I haven’t had a Christmas without you in 24 years. I’m so glad that Amy will be here. I hope I don’t get all mushy and cry. Or maybe that’s OK, and we’ll all cry together.
Love,
Dad
posted by Rod at 4:28 PM
1 Comments:
I met Rachel for the first time at Christmas in 1997. Most of my own memories of her are from Christmases and summer visits. There will be a large hole in our holiday this year and forever more. You will not be alone in your cry. You'll never be alone in your grief. We all love Rachel and miss her very much.
Love, Jen
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