My Daddy Died

Hearing these words from my 3 year old son (now 4) in his sweet, high pitched, toddlerish voice... it was as if three samurai swords pierced me through the throat, heart, and gut.  It hurts.  Physically.  Every single time.

Yet, he is working through his own grief, the major change he experienced in his life, and to do that requires him to repeat this phrase, a lot.

I reply: "Yes, Daddy died, Daddy is in heaven, Daddy loves you very much."  He is 4, what more can I say?

I look at my youngest son and I see Jeff.  I see Jeff in his brown eyes in his chin and cheeks.  Jeff is in his skin color and the shape of his head.  Jeff is in his barrel body shape all the way down to his funky toenails (they grow straight up, it's weird).  I look at J2 as if he is a mini-me of Jeff.  Except for his nose.  He has my nose.

J2 will cheerfully tell you his Daddy died.  In the past year: he told the dental hygentist, an instant friend at the Chick-fil-A playplace, and random people he meets out and about.  This always gives people a pause, then they look at me with the question on their faces and I have to explain.  Sometimes I would like to be annoymous, go about my day without having to inform people that yes, I am a widow.  But that depends on how J2 is feeling that day.  If Jeff is on his mind, he tells you he died.

But that is all he remembers.  I look at J2 and I know that this child, the one that is a carbon copy of his father, will never truely have a memory of Jeff.  He won't recall that Jeff tossed him in the air, he won't remember Jeff reading him stories at night and putting him to bed.  He won't recall all the tractor rides that Daddy gave him after Jeff finished cutting the grass.  Or that his father was so fun loving he would climb into a narrow flat screen TV box and play spaceship.  The places they went together the things they did.  Those are my memories.  Mine to impart upon him as I do when we look at pictures of Jeff or something prompts me to tell a Jeff story. 

I know that over time, J2 will have heard me tell him so many stories he will almost think he remembers them himself.  But I know, I know in my heart, he never will.  And that is another painful aspect of Jeff's death.  One I live with everyday as I gaze upon my children.  The man I chose, the one I knew would make a great father, is not here to raise them.

J2 kisses Jeff's picture every night and if I am tired or have forgotten to get the picture down, he reminds me.  I like that reminder more than hearing him say "My Daddy Died." But at least he remembers something, anything of Jeff, even if it is his absence.

Sincerely,

Jeff's Wife