arguments. “ Why do you want to be a bump on a log?”
“Beca use , June, that log is what people rely on! I am not just the guy who gives out pills! Some of these people need that conversation and that stability in their lives. I can be that for them.”
“But what about you, Martin? What about your life? Don’t you want more?”
“No, I don’t . I think what I’ve got is pretty damn great . I don’t want any more!”
“Well, I do ! ”
She had fared far better than he had, when it came to dealing with Maggie ’s death . She could cut off emotions when she needed to , and she had a bustling career and a circle of close friends to keep her elevated. For the first time in his life, Martin was jealous of June’s “gotta go, gotta run, gotta do something” style . He knew it left little time for wallowing in grief .
And, deep down, he knew she was right. He needed to let them go, both his wife and his daughter , and he needed to s trive for something. It was the first step in trying to make h is life whole again. Could something as simple as writing a letter be that helpful? His father would’ve thought so.
Martin had grown up along with Suffolk, Virginia. He’d watch it grow from a sleepy rural town into a good-sized, modern c ity , complete with an active “downtown revitalization” program . By the time he was born, his father was already known as one of the most successful peanut growers in the state. Robert Abingdon had thousands of acres to manage , with several large crew s of young farm hands , all eager to learn the secrets to their employer’s success.
Each year, during the spring planting season, Robert would pack up the whole family and join other area farmers in a simple prayer service to ask for rain . This greatly frustrated Martin. The weather was warming up , and t he catfish in the pond near their farmhouse were itching to munch on his homemade dough - ball bait . The last place he wanted to be was church.
When Martin was eight -years old, on the way to a mid-week service , he asked: “Daddy, why do we have to go ask God for rain? It’s not like it’s dollars or something we can spend.”
His father chuckled, removed his pipe , and replied : “Martin, to a starving man, bread is gold. To a cold man, a blanket is money. And to our crop s of goober peas, water is better than any dollars we could hope for . Water grows ‘em, keeps ‘em fresh and gets us our blankets, our bread . It also pays for them fancy steel hooks for a certain someone’s fishing rod .”
Mart in flushed , embarrassed that the reason for his questioning was so obvious.
“What you need, and why you need it, is all a matter of p erspective in this world, son.”
Even at that young age, Martin had known that this was something to remember. He pondered it and smiled, like he was smiling now , remembering nearly 50 years ago. “And to a grieving father, closure is gold,” he said aloud. “Thanks Dad.”
He pulled the keyboard toward him and typed in the address for the Say Goodbye to Me website . As soon as it loaded, he began his letter.
Maggie ,
This world got a little dimmer when you left it behind. You put the light and color in my world. I know you are in a better place, but I am in a worse place without you here with us. Your mother says we have to move on . I know she’s right . But I don’t know how . Even though you were already out of the nest , th is house still seems too quiet. Not having you here at the moment isn’t nearly as bad as knowing that you will never be here again. I miss your smile . I miss your laugh and the way you could always see the good in things.
I don’t understand how this could’ve happened to you . Why didn’t you talk to us? How could we have been so blind as to miss it? I know you didn’t plan for this to happen, but that doesn’t help much with the pain.
I have to say
“Beca use , June, that log is what people rely on! I am not just the guy who gives out pills! Some of these people need that conversation and that stability in their lives. I can be that for them.”
“But what about you, Martin? What about your life? Don’t you want more?”
“No, I don’t . I think what I’ve got is pretty damn great . I don’t want any more!”
“Well, I do ! ”
She had fared far better than he had, when it came to dealing with Maggie ’s death . She could cut off emotions when she needed to , and she had a bustling career and a circle of close friends to keep her elevated. For the first time in his life, Martin was jealous of June’s “gotta go, gotta run, gotta do something” style . He knew it left little time for wallowing in grief .
And, deep down, he knew she was right. He needed to let them go, both his wife and his daughter , and he needed to s trive for something. It was the first step in trying to make h is life whole again. Could something as simple as writing a letter be that helpful? His father would’ve thought so.
Martin had grown up along with Suffolk, Virginia. He’d watch it grow from a sleepy rural town into a good-sized, modern c ity , complete with an active “downtown revitalization” program . By the time he was born, his father was already known as one of the most successful peanut growers in the state. Robert Abingdon had thousands of acres to manage , with several large crew s of young farm hands , all eager to learn the secrets to their employer’s success.
Each year, during the spring planting season, Robert would pack up the whole family and join other area farmers in a simple prayer service to ask for rain . This greatly frustrated Martin. The weather was warming up , and t he catfish in the pond near their farmhouse were itching to munch on his homemade dough - ball bait . The last place he wanted to be was church.
When Martin was eight -years old, on the way to a mid-week service , he asked: “Daddy, why do we have to go ask God for rain? It’s not like it’s dollars or something we can spend.”
His father chuckled, removed his pipe , and replied : “Martin, to a starving man, bread is gold. To a cold man, a blanket is money. And to our crop s of goober peas, water is better than any dollars we could hope for . Water grows ‘em, keeps ‘em fresh and gets us our blankets, our bread . It also pays for them fancy steel hooks for a certain someone’s fishing rod .”
Mart in flushed , embarrassed that the reason for his questioning was so obvious.
“What you need, and why you need it, is all a matter of p erspective in this world, son.”
Even at that young age, Martin had known that this was something to remember. He pondered it and smiled, like he was smiling now , remembering nearly 50 years ago. “And to a grieving father, closure is gold,” he said aloud. “Thanks Dad.”
He pulled the keyboard toward him and typed in the address for the Say Goodbye to Me website . As soon as it loaded, he began his letter.
Maggie ,
This world got a little dimmer when you left it behind. You put the light and color in my world. I know you are in a better place, but I am in a worse place without you here with us. Your mother says we have to move on . I know she’s right . But I don’t know how . Even though you were already out of the nest , th is house still seems too quiet. Not having you here at the moment isn’t nearly as bad as knowing that you will never be here again. I miss your smile . I miss your laugh and the way you could always see the good in things.
I don’t understand how this could’ve happened to you . Why didn’t you talk to us? How could we have been so blind as to miss it? I know you didn’t plan for this to happen, but that doesn’t help much with the pain.
I have to say
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