I cried last night

Isaac is getting older. That's not why I cried. He's just past sixteen months, and he's still sleeping in our bedroom in his crib. He wakes up every morning at 6am on the dot, even on the weekends. That's not why I cried. I have my office in the room of our house that we call Venice. It's called Venice because it's covered in photo-wallpaper with scenes of Venice. The wallpaper is inside the closet and it's a picture of what you'd see if you opened the doors that are in the picture that are on the outside of the doors of the closet. It came with the house. Jen and I don't necessarily like it. That's not why I cried.

We want to move Isaac's crib and changing table into Venice, and that means I have to move my office/computer/stuff down-downstairs. There's a fair bit of stuff to move. That's not why I cried. There's a bunch of stuff that I brought back from Phoenix from my dad's house after he passed away this spring. I have to move that stuff too. I had been dreading moving the stuff down-downstairs because I didn't really want to handle the stuff.

I did, however, suck it up last night and started moving things before I could think too much about it. I was able to move the six or so boxes of things down-downstairs without incident. Then, I gathered a few miscellaneous things: a small grey metal lockbox, a handful of CDs and DVDs and three manila file folders. One of the folders was labeled "Phyllis 66". I didn't know if that meant "66th Birthday" or was a reference to the "Route 66" themed motorhome that my mother and father had owned.

I stood there with these things in my hands and let the folder flop open. I saw an accounting of the dinner party celebrating my mother's 66th birthday in March of 2004 at Outback Steakhouse, including details and outcome of a dispute over how many adults were present and how many entrees were charged for and the fact that "Andrea" would be submitting a credit for $20 to "our Visa account". I also saw a printed poem read at her memorial in March of 2005. I saw the small, pink "Do Not Resuscitate" ID card, dated January 2004 with her neatly written signature. I thought about my mom. I thought about my dad. I thought about them together and I thought about being apart from them. Forever.

That's when I cried. It was quite loud. It was for several minutes. Almost a wail if I think back and try to evaluate it objectively. I didn't feel good when I was done, but I felt better.