Back in the early 80’s I was repairing a computer, replacing a video card inside. The computer slipped off of the desk and when I grabbed it to prevent it from hitting the floor, I sliced my finger due to the very sharp internal computer case. I was rushed to the hospital, where I got some stitches on my finger and they wrapped it up in a bandage. The person who "patched me up" did something to my figure that left a scar and to me, never healed properly.
Still, almost 40 years later, I can still see the scar on my finger. Normally I forget it is there, though I can see it clearly when I look at my finger. When I pick up an object with my left hand, it reminds me that it is there because of the pain I feel when something is pressing against the wound. If I rub my other finger across it, it feels tingly until I touch a certain point and then I feel a sharp pain.
The memory of losing my dad and my brother-in-law Miguel, now going on 8 months feels exactly the same as this wound. I don't wake up crying from the constant throbbing pain I once felt. I usually go throughout the day as I go about my life, living in the today moment with everything that is calling my attention until something stops me in my tracks and I think of one of them.
Recently, on this Thanksgiving, it was the memory of dad making his delicious pot of rice for the big gathering. He would start early in the morning preparing the spices, making the rice and then calling us to let us know it was done. Usually about 2+ hours before it was supposed to be ready and we had planned. To which he would say “se me adelanto” which means it got ahead of me. This would happen, year after year.
It also was the memory of Miguel, along with Denise and the rest of our Florida family arriving the night before. Usually around 9PM or so, unloading the massive amount of suitcases for the 7-9 people packed in the van. Immediately complaining about how cold it was, if we had the wood pile stocked for the fireplace and if it was already burning nice and hot. If the turkey was already prepared or if he had to go start doing all of that by himself. "Mira Denise, como me tienen trabajando!" (“Look Denise, At how much work they’ve given me to do!”). "Quick! Take a picture", he would say. Same as my Dad’s rice, this would also be the annual pattern, year after year.
Just like my finger, the sharp pain I feel when memories like I describe come back, the tears immediately start flowing down my face, almost to a gush. The thought that I will not be “whole” anymore and will forever have this wound in my heart, in my soul. Almost seem unbelievable and unbearable.
8 months later, I still feel the sharp pain and wonder if it will be like this from now on. The numbness of my mind thinking “How can this be, that this would happen like this”. That the plans that we had made were completely turned upside down.
Will every Thanksgiving bring back these painful memories or will my wound heal? Leaving just a scar of a distant memory that once robbed me of my ability to breath from the pain I felt.
I miss you dad and Miguel in ways I struggle to describe as I rub my finger over my scar.
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