By tonyaw on January 08, 2013
I almost bought my father, who has been dead for five years a Christmas present today.
A book, but not just any book, a $75.00 coffee table book: Fenway Park: 100 Years: The Official, Definitive History of America’s Most Beloved Ballpark
He would have devoured it.
He loved the Red Sox.
His last e-mail to me, the e-mail that will forever stay in my In Box was about recording the 2007 play off games (he and my mother lived overseas and could not watch the games live). The Red Sox were victorious that year against the Colorado Rockies in the World Series, but my father died before he even knew they were going to the Big Show.
I was actually standing in line at Barnes & Noble holding this beautiful 12 x 14 shrink wrapped book in my arms thinking how on earth am I going to wrap this thing?
And then it hit me.
I no longer buy my father Christmas presents.
“Dad” isn’t a name on my Christmas shopping list.
What the hell am I doing?
On one hand, I felt like a total idiot and on the other, it was so incredibly sad.
I put the book back where I found it and couldn’t get out of the store fast enough.
Why does our brain do that to us? Trick us into thinking someone is here that is definitely not, lets us get all the way to the check out line before reality sneaks up and reminds us of the harsh truth. So bizarre. So cruel.
As I rushed off to my car to have a good cry, I thought I should have at least looked through it. So, what does my dumb ass do? I returned to the store, picked up an unwrapped copy, found a quiet corner, thumbed through the pages, let the words and photographs blur and was careful to keep my tears from landing on the pages.
Tonya writes Letters For Lucas and at any given moment can be found changing a diaper or enjoying a glass of Cab while Dave Matthews plays in the background.
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