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Funny, how life goes on. A grave is being dug not far from where I sit. This morning, on my way here, cars buzzed past and people walked up and down Main Street as if . . . as if nothing. Just another day. Even for me, I’m finding there are longer and longer spans without my thoughts turning to Dad. Or Mom.
Mostly thanks to a never-ending cycle of work and, more recently, thanks to Tris. I’ve allowed him to occupy my life so completely that I forget some days to properly mourn. To pay tribute to the people who gave me everything.
Life. A happy life.
Education. Courage. Ambition.
My own restaurant to nurture and grow. To love.
“I didn’t mean to forget about you,” I whisper. That’s why, last night, I texted Tris that I was tired and was going home. But instead, I drove to the most familiar place besides my home, and the restaurant.
Sitting in the parking lot of Dad’s former car dealership, I stared through the glass windows of a showroom I spent many hours running through. Dad attempting to close deals as he chastised me for jumping in and out of cars or slamming doors.
“When you come back from New York,” he’d said the weekend before I left, “no one will be better prepared to take Leoni’s to new heights than you.”
New heights indeed.
One would think, after losing both parents, the disappointment of such a small thing like a regional restaurant award would bounce right off my back. So why does this stupid award, and Tris’s success, cut so deeply? Am I that shallow?
Everything will be ok.
Right?
No answer.
Once, my mother came into my bedroom and found a book on my desk.The Art of Happiness. I’d always loved going to the Sunday flea market with my dad, and while he looked for random car parts, I wandered to the used books, picking up any that caught my eye. That one had, and especially as a young teen, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on.
“This is an interesting one,” she’d said. “I don’t know a lot about the Dalai Lama.” And so I told her what I’d read. That in order to be happy, we needed to control our own thoughts. That the perception of our life matters most. Satisfaction with what we have, practicing compassion, is all that is necessary to be happy.
She thought long and hard about what I’d said, and even now, I can remember waiting for her response. The Dalai Lama was all fine and good, but if my mother did not agree with his sentiments, maybe I didn’t either.
“I think that is a good lesson, but one that will need to be relearned many, many times.”
I’m not sure what made me think of that incident now.
Maybe I needed to be reminded of the fact that my current misery is of my own making. Which means it should be as easy as forcing myself out of these doldrums, calling Tris, working this out and getting back to business.
Right?
If only it was so easy.
“Holy hell, you’re hard to get a hold of, woman.”
I came back to my car, and my cell, to two missed calls and even more text messages.
“I left my phone in the car,” I tell Tris as I start it, prepared to leave the cemetery.
“Last night?” he asks, definitely annoyed. “When you never answered, I drove by the restaurant. And your house. But I didn’t see your car anywhere.”
Oops. My bad.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call when I left. Maggie got me when I was a block away. Apparently the alarm went off after I left. Thankfully, she was still there, but I had to call the security company to get it turned off. By then I was already at the dealership and kind of lost track of time. I texted you this morning,” I defend myself.
“The car dealership? Your Dad’s? At one in the morning?”
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him where I’m at now.
“Yeah. Muscle memory, I guess. I was talking to the security place and drove there.” And then I throw it in. “And I’m just leaving the cemetery now.”
