Soggy Crust and Wet Carpet

A friend came to visit the other day and asked if I still cry a lot about my dad.  Every couple days I have a slow moment and that's when memories surface.  My day is seldom quiet so I don't have opportunity to dwell on our loss at the same time I try to be cognizant of the need to grieve.

I guess the term "slow moment" is relative.  These moments exist for me are when no one is demanding my direct attention.  Last Saturday I cried into my pizza as I was making supper.  This is an obvious time to stop and think of Dad as pizza was his favorite and I don't recall a time when Mom didn't make it for him on a Saturday night.  Saturday night pizza was an institution.  The occasion was rare that my friends could persuade me to "go out" when there was a weekly party at home.  Dad was introduced to pizza in high school.  The fact that he was not Italian but Danish didn't seem to curb his enthusiasm for what would become a food staple for him.  My dad wasn't a huge eater, but he made an exception when it came to pizza.  He always ate his pizza with a fork.  Hot pepper flakes became a must have within the last 15 years.  When we were kids it was a big deal that we got to drink kool-aid with our pizza.  Changing with the times pop is now the expectation.  Mom's pizza crust can be used as a time line.  Mom started out making the boxed mix crust, made a short transition to frozen bread dough, next she made a thick home made bread dough, finally she settled into a French dough making a thinner crust.  There is no wonder that pizza is my number one go to comfort food...

Yesterday I had another moment as I was vacuuming.  This can be a very reflective time for me as no one can talk to me over the sound of the vacuum.  I can't remember what triggered the tears, but they were mixed with chuckles.  I was remembering my dad's last words to me.  In the last months I had wondered what they would be.  In the end he couldn't really talk.  So when he said something it was because it was important.  He could only whisper.  I leaned in close to try to understand what he was trying to say.  It was something along the lines of, "You made me throw up!"  Dad experienced a lot of nausea. Having had a lot of experience with this myself, I was always on the lookout for things that might help ease it.  Nothing I suggested helped.  And the preggy-pops were the worst, apparently.  So, the last act for my Dad in his consciousness was to hold the bucket for him.  I laughed then and it still makes me laugh.  I can only surmise that Dad figured he had already told me everything he needed to as he raised me.