The Orphan Age

Spring 2009

 

I miss my parents.

It’s been five years now since I became an orphan. Five years, and still sometimes there are sad little gaps in my life where my parents used to be.

Whom do I send new pictures of the kids to? No one.

Who calls daily or weekly wanting to know what we’ve all been up to? No one.

Who leaves messages on my phone, wanting me to call as soon as we get home from vacation so they’ll know we’re all safe? No one.

And whom can I ask about how I am supposed to let go of my children now that they are on the verge of moving out?

How did my parents ever let go of me and my brother? It couldn’t have been easy. My brother joined the Air Force during the Vietnam War. I left for college just as my parents were splitting up. What could they tell me, if only they were here, about how you find the strength to part without falling apart?

I want to ask my mother about her life, her experiences, what she learned and how she learned it. I want to ask my father about his dreams, about the plans he made that don’t quite make sense to me because I don’t know the whole story. I want to know about their parents, and their own acts of rebellion when they were the age my children are now.

Why didn’t my father ever have a birthday party? Why wasn’t my mother allowed to go into a nightclub with her friends?

Why didn’t I ask these questions when I had the chance?

Why do I have to learn the rules the hard way for myself, when generations before me have figured them out the hard way and tried to pass them along?

I miss my parents. I hope they have an Internet service provider in heaven and are reading this. And I hope they smile.