On Daphne's Memory

Daphne is a seriously like her mom in one way:  she notices details and has a very specific, but sometimes selective, memory.  She pulls out references to exact phrases I know I said only one time and months ago, but can’t (won’t) remember to sit, instead of stand, on her chair at the dinner table.  I remember what I wore to the Forest Park Balloon Races with my immediate family and maternal grandparents when I was about nine years old (a long-sleeved technicolor t-shirt and jeans), but I remember surprisingly little about my master’s thesis or what I had for breakfast yesterday.  

I’ve made it through a few sad milestones lately and I think she knows.  It started when I began to pack up all of her baby clothes.  I took them out of their clunky tubs in the closet and put them in vacuum bags that shrink down and save space.  I touched all of those small outfits and soft shirts and couldn’t help but sink into sadness over their lack of use.  They were intended for more babies.  More babies I was supposed to have with him.  And he touched them and folded them and put them on our baby girl.  And now he’s gone and there will be no more babies and no more Dad caring for Daphne in that way.  I was not yet crying, but I was quiet and had my back to her as she read books in her rocking chair.  Without saying a word, she came to me and grabbed my cheeks in the adorable way she has been doing when she wants to kiss my forehead.  But instead of giving a kiss, she said, “Momma is sad?” And then she gave me a hug with a pat.

I’ve stopped lying to her.  I tell her I am sad, but that I’ll be okay.  When she asks me if “Daddy is sad, too?” I just tell her how much I miss him.  And that I love him so much.  And that’s usually all I can choke out.  

Here’s the thing.  Every time I talk about him with her, I start to cry.  I want to build memories and fight science, the laws of nature, and developmental speeds to make her -  force her - to have real memories of him so she can confidently say she remembers her father instead of feeling like her memories are fabricated by pictures and stories told.  So that she knows how much he loved her and supported her every move. I don't want her to be sad when she thinks of him.  But I can’t do it yet, and I have to wonder if I just should rip that bandage.  We say goodnight to him every night.  She tells him to have sweet dreams.  That might have to be enough for now.

A few weeks ago she asked me if we could go to the garage door in the laundry room and wait for him to come home.  We used to do that a lot when we arrived home before he did in the evenings.  It has been eight months (yesterday) and I have not mentioned it to her once.  I haven’t told her how much I miss it because I thought it would confuse her, make her think he’s coming. Does she really remember that?  She must, but how?  And good god, how can I make her keep it?  I know I can’t really force those memories - even training her to think about them now would be planting them in her little brain, but lately she’s been asking if he’s “just not home yet” or if he’s “just driving.”  She tells me that she “loves Daddy.  I miss him.  He’s in heaven.”  Or when I was crying (secretly and silently, I thought) on the way home from Saint Peters on Father’s Day, she asked me if I was a little sad and if I needed a hug from Daddy.

She also told me he was in the brown closet with some dirt.  She struggled to spit it out, but said it was a “Different closet. Dirt in the closet.  He’s all fixed now.”  This was also on our drive home, and she was in and out of sleep, so I am choosing to call that some dream talking instead of thinking about it further. I have too many other waves to jump.

Eight days ago would have been his 34th birthday.  Three days ago was Father’s Day. Twenty-nine days from now would have been our 4th wedding anniversary.  It’s a minefield.  I’m sad and I’m treading lightly.  I’m trying to be strong but also nice to myself and make sure I’m in a safe place when I need to be, but she is watching me.  She understands and I can’t decide if that is good or bad.  She is mine and I am hers and we have to do this together either way.  Maybe she’s the only one who really understands even if she can’t tell me how or why or what she actually remembers.  And that might be all I need from her - just to remind me of him and to know what I am going through on some primal, animal cub level.