To Lose Him

We're approaching the end of week 2. If only the next 6 will go as swiftly. This transition has been difficult no doubt, but my Mom has seemed to wear the weight of it most openly. The departure was painful, the visit was dramatic, and the distance in between is an open ended agony. I think we both feel that. I had not cried a tear since Dad left that Friday two weeks ago - I think I got them all out in the moment, and then sucked it up and looked ahead. However, my mom's tears were daily, along with the mantra, "I just keep losing him." I've had to remind her - one, "we" keep losing him, and two, it's not about us. It's for Dad, and he's not lost. He's only going on the most important business trip of his life for simply 2 months. We know and are well aware of the logic around it all, and I understand it gets blurred in the pain. Yet, again, I did not cry until Saturday night when we were mid-visit with Dad. After we finished dinner, we went back to the hotel to take the doggies for a little walk before Sarah took Dad back to his apartment. Sarah and Mom chatted in the room, while Dad and I took Jenny and Melvin for a stroll around the grounds of the Doubletree. There was little bits of chit chat, I can't deny it sort of felt awkward. :( I sort of didn't know what to say, I didn't know if Dad thought he was staying in the room with us or what. But we got back to the door and met Sarah and Mom there. "Okay, David, Sarah's gonna drive ya back to your apartment and we'll meet you in the morning for breakfast." Mom says, cheerily. "She is?" Dad says. "Yep! we've gotta head back to the residence now, the dogs are staying with Annie and Barbara at the hotel." Sarah chimes in. "ohhh... okay." Dad plays along. There are hugs goodbye on the steps, while the leashes gradually get more tangled around our legs by little Jenny wiggling all about. And Mom and I head inside, closely the large, heavy glass door as Sarah and Dad turn to walk away. That's when I lost it (and I lose it now as I'm trying to type). We turn and walk toward the room, and Melvin would not turn to follow. Instead, nose pressed to the glass - paws splayed out in front of him as I'm pulling his leash, he planted himself in such a strong stance - watching his Dad walk away. And I can only imagine his little doggie mantra running through his canine brain, "no no no! Don't take him again! where's he going? where's he going? where's he going?" It broke my heart. Dad may be away from us now, by choice, circumstance, and distance, but Melvin is the one who keeps losing him. And there are no words of reason to tell him why. But I know, I know he knows something. He feels something. Just have faith Melly - Daddy's coming home.