Saturday, March 13, 2010
Today when I got home from my meeting, you Dad pulled me onto his lap and played this song by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros for me. He said, "I've been listening to this song all morning and I just want to get my hands on you." He bounced me on his knee and squeezed me and rubbed my back and I know I am a total sap, but it made me tear up a little.
Here is why...
The weekend I first met Grandaddy Crawley, he was circulating a short book heralding his recently deceased wife that detailed their life and travels as Baptist missionaries. It was a collection of stories about a reserved man with a deep but unspoken love for his loyal wife. He had silently loved her since the day they met, but when she passed she may not have known all the love he had in his heart for her. He waited for her passing to write down all his most precious memories. Amongst the catalogue of places they lived and challenges they faced, he described vividly what might have been nothing more than mundane moments to his wife Margaret. But to Grandaddy Crawley, these were the moments when he looked upon his wife and his heart swelled with a deep and passionate love. The book was Winston’s love song to Margaret, sung loudly in the words on the page.
“Grandaddy always said that home is where Margaret is,” your father told me that weekend. And your father told me one late Friday night when he rushed in the door after a long night at work, sweeping me into a long hug that brought me onto the tips of my toes. “Home is where you are Ingrid”. He lingered in the hug, I could hear him sniffing my hair and feel him breathing me into his heart.
I called my Mom last night to thank her for her visit and she said she had such a lovely time but was so happy to be home.
“You know that I’ve been taking those flower arranging classes and I hardly thought your father noticed. But before I left, I had made a very special arrangement in the bedroom and it was sadly dying. You know your father Ingrid, well I suspected he would have all the dead flowers out of the house before my plane even left the runway. But when I got home, the strangest thing, the Ichiban arrangement I had left in the bedroom was exactly as I had left it. Well your father had measured each flower and gone out and bought replacement stems and arranged it exactly as I had left it. I guess he had noticed. I guess he missed me. And I have to say Ingrid, I missed him too. I had a wonderful time visiting with my kids, but I couldn’t wait to get home. And home is where your father is. It always has been.”
Then, this morning, out-of-the-blue, your daddy plays me this song. Unfortunately Ms. Story, as Grandaddy reminds us, we wont always have each other. But for now, we have a beautiful home. These little coincidences remind me to be grateful.