I left the house a little early, and stopped to lay some delphiniums (one of his favorite flowers) at the tree we'd planted this fall for him. The morning light was coming up, and it was quiet: a good time to pray and say that a year later I still miss him. When I looked up, I saw Sarah in her bedroom window, watching me; she waved, as if to cheer her Daddy up.
Work conspired to keep me nice and busy, and so did the boys' last football practice before their playoff game/rematch against Manassas. There were plenty of times during the day that thoughts of him cropped up, and while they were more frequent and pronounced than recently, I could handle them well.
Then came a moment in David's football game Saturday morning. The Sharks had run a play like the ones they had used to beat us on so many times in our first game, and ran a long ways for a TD and the first score. In the next series, Coach called a timeout and gave the defense some life, because they came out of that timeout with two sacks that quickly had the Sharks looking at 4th and 21. Suddenly there was a glimmer of hope.
Then we got the ball, ran a few more of our run plays. And then, it happened: Power Pass Right. David's signature pass play.
It went just beautifully, exactly as it's drawn up. By the time everyone realized it was a pass, David was behind the last defender. Daniel's pass was perfect, David caught it in mid-stride, and was off. The Wolves bench and sideline went nuts, cheering and hollering for David as he ran 40 yards for what would turn out to be the Wolves' only score of the day. But suddenly it's 6-6, suddenly there is hope, suddenly the Wolves are back in it, and suddenly it's dawning on the Sharks that this isn't the same team they beat before, and they're in for a long morning.
Of course I was cheering probably the loudest; why not?! But then I noticed a new emotion working up beside the tremendous pride I felt in my son and his accomplishment. It was a stab of deep sorrow.
Standing on the sideline, watching my boy so nonchalantly flip the ball to the referee to set up the PAT ("This? Oh, I do this all the time!"), I began to sob. Tears rolled down my face as I turned away; I never saw them miss the PAT. At that moment, what saddened me the most was that David's Pappap never had the chance to see him play...would never have the chance to see the tremendous gifts his grandson has, could not share in the moment and could never give him the hug he so richly deserved. And David, exulting with his teammates, could never know the joy of seeing his Pappap's beaming face on the sideline, his white crown of hair and gold glasses shining with the excitement of the moment, his moment.
I think often that It's Not Fair, that I should lose my Dad when I'm only age 40. It's moments like those that make me see the broader unfairness, how many others are similarly denied having him around. Oh, David never saw me crying; he probably didn't register who wasn't there to see him in triumph. But it's moments like those that nonetheless make up how we are, and how we find ourselves coping, One Year On.
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