Abba. 2 years. At
exactly 7 AM this morning we heard your granddaughter calling Abba incessantly.
Even though I have been running away from the truth, I know that no matter how
many times I would call for YOU, Abba, you will not answer me. Ever. (Maybe you
can give me signs?) But Lulu's Abba (and Ima) came to her of course to start
the day with our sunny Good Morning song. We were greeted by heart-melting
smiles and cheers. I did soak up the moment, the love, our morning hugs and
kisses and the sweet, palpable blessings in my life, but I can't help it, Abba.
A part of my heart is gone without you, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I have tried to deny, I have refused to accept, but this morning, after we lit
your memorial candles, I sat at my laptop and looked at your pictures for the
first time in 2 years. And for the first time, Abba, I put Lulu on my lap and
taught her the word Sabba. Her only encounter with you were all the times you
rubbed my belly on your hospital bed when I was 5 months pregnant, 2 weeks before
you left us, and now, on my lap, she kept pointing at your pictures whispering
Sabba. Her voice then turned into repeated exclamation-pointed Sabba accompanied
by her signature hand-waving and her warm Hiiii, while I was working
hard at holding back my tears (which I have become an expert at). She said Bye
to the picture and got off my lap, but a moment later she asked to get back to
look at Sabba again. I guess I'm not the only one refusing to say
goodbye.
I'm well aware that
looking at your pictures is a first healthy step, but it scares the hell out of me,
just as I'm scared of Lulu starting to ask about Sabba, forcing me to pick at
my scab.
I have been suppressing those agonizing days in the hospital but the painful memories find a way to resurface. Remember how you helped us choose her name? I wanted to tell you that we chose the name you liked most. I wish I could know that you can see her from above. I am longing for unwavering evidence that you are watching over us.
One thing I do know, Abba, is that you blessed her when you were rubbing my belly, because how else would she become such a remarkably happy baby, despite her Ima's trauma of losing you while pregnant. She is our smiling, laughing, silly, funny, jolly, healing light. Thank you, Abba! And thank you for the years you have given me as my Abba.
Apparently I took a step forward in my grieving process today but I don't exactly know what it means. I only know that my heart cannot contain how much I miss you and everything about you and our special connection. I love you, Abba!
