Little Things & Big Things
Dear Rachel,
At first it was the “big things” that got to me. The realization that I would never get to share some of those defining moments with you, that certain important milestones would never be reached. I’ll never get to walk you down the aisle. Never watch (all blubbery and teary-eyed, no doubt) as you get an award, accept a big promotion, or walk across the stage to get that master’s degree. I’ll never be able to call on you for advice—instead of the other way around—as I enter my dotage and am wondering about where (and how!) to live, how to maximize my savings, etc. (You were supposed to be around to help out your doddering old dad, you know.) I’ll never get to marvel that my “little girl” is now 40 years old. Never help you move into that first real house of your own. Never get that phone call from you: “Better sit down. Are you sitting? OK, well, you’re about to become a great-grandfather.” (Not so sure I was looking forward to that one anyway.)
So many big moments we’ll never share.
These days, though, it’s mainly the “little things” that I think about. I see a young woman on the playground help her child master the monkey bars, and I think, “Rachel will never help Shaylyn do that.” I see a nice sunset or a beautiful white cloud against a bright blue background and think, “Rachel can’t see this.” The telephone rings and I think, “That won’t be—can’t be—Rachel.” A country song comes on the radio and I think, “Rachel really likes George Strait, but she can’t hear this.” I pull up next to a car in which a young woman is smiling and talking on her cell phone and I think, “Rachel always did that—but no more.”
A thousand little things remind me of you.
Those little things add up and they occur all the time and they hurt a lot. The world isn’t really made up of those big things, of large moments of huge import, is it? Instead it’s a collection of thousands of seemingly unimportant little things; a never-ending stream of small moments that eventually become—well, whatever we make of them, I suppose. Canadian poet Robert Brault advised us to learn to “enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” And, as it turns out, they were.
Love,
Dad
At first it was the “big things” that got to me. The realization that I would never get to share some of those defining moments with you, that certain important milestones would never be reached. I’ll never get to walk you down the aisle. Never watch (all blubbery and teary-eyed, no doubt) as you get an award, accept a big promotion, or walk across the stage to get that master’s degree. I’ll never be able to call on you for advice—instead of the other way around—as I enter my dotage and am wondering about where (and how!) to live, how to maximize my savings, etc. (You were supposed to be around to help out your doddering old dad, you know.) I’ll never get to marvel that my “little girl” is now 40 years old. Never help you move into that first real house of your own. Never get that phone call from you: “Better sit down. Are you sitting? OK, well, you’re about to become a great-grandfather.” (Not so sure I was looking forward to that one anyway.)
So many big moments we’ll never share.
These days, though, it’s mainly the “little things” that I think about. I see a young woman on the playground help her child master the monkey bars, and I think, “Rachel will never help Shaylyn do that.” I see a nice sunset or a beautiful white cloud against a bright blue background and think, “Rachel can’t see this.” The telephone rings and I think, “That won’t be—can’t be—Rachel.” A country song comes on the radio and I think, “Rachel really likes George Strait, but she can’t hear this.” I pull up next to a car in which a young woman is smiling and talking on her cell phone and I think, “Rachel always did that—but no more.”
A thousand little things remind me of you.
Those little things add up and they occur all the time and they hurt a lot. The world isn’t really made up of those big things, of large moments of huge import, is it? Instead it’s a collection of thousands of seemingly unimportant little things; a never-ending stream of small moments that eventually become—well, whatever we make of them, I suppose. Canadian poet Robert Brault advised us to learn to “enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” And, as it turns out, they were.
Love,
Dad
posted by Rod at 4:39 PM
6 Comments:
Thank-you for sharing your heart, here.
I've just taken a mental inventory of all the things I love about my daughter and what she does to make me smile, so that I can enjoy them more tonight and the next time I am aware of them.
I can't imagine your hurt, but you have my prayers.
Thanks, Penny, for dropping by and for taking the time to comment. Maybe hearts are, in general, meant to be shared. Broken hearts more than most. Thanks again.
Oh, Rod, it is so sad to read your posts but I still come to your blog. I guess somehow I think that if people read it, somehow that will give you love and caring and support and that in a little, tiny way we can help with this horrible pain. Love, Les' pal, Nan
Thanks, Nan. Oddly, it does help. Maybe it's just the sense of having shared (and thereby lessened) a burden?
Sadly, the frustrations we face with our children are as much what we take to bed with us at night as the joys we share with them. That shouldn't be so, and I thank you for reminding me to appreciate what I have.
Thanks for your comment, Atavist, and for dropping by. I'm sure I spent (i.e., wasted) a fair amount of time being angry/frustrated with Rachel over things that turned out to be inconsequential. Damn, I wish I could get some of those wasted minutes back.
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