The Best Parts

by Michelle Read DeGarmo

Simple truths. You adored my children as if you were their beloved crazy uncle. Never missed a play or concert, carried their school photos in your wallet and hung their school achievement certificates on the wall above your desk. From the first day you met six month old Elder Child, you were in love. You talked to Younger Child throughout my pregnancy, wondering if she’d recognize your voice when she was born. You showered them with gifts and praise, fed them junk food and life lessons. Sat beside them to read the same book a dozen times. You held YC when she’d been in the world less than a dozen hours. When EC walked to the office after school you stopped work to ask about her day.

One drizzly February day, when EC was at daycare and Husband working days during winter break, you came to my house with a Vivaldi CD you’d bought at a truck stop. I sat in the rocking chair, nursing my five week old infant while you tactfully averted your eyes. We talked about NPR and funny bumper stickers you saw on the road. I sang all my favorite James Taylor and Barry Manilow songs to soothe the baby and you asked me to keep singing long after she slept. Later you brought me lunch and made me tea.

I didn’t realize how I longed for the outside world, still immersed as I was on the hormone cocktail of breastfeeding and new baby smell. It was just an afternoon filled with simple acts of love and it was magnificent.

Some people asked why I played Vivaldi at your memorial service. Why not Grateful Dead or Talking Heads? Surely that was more your style. It was my selfish desire to remember this day. The tenderness with which you handed me the heavy hand-thrown pottery mug of mint tea. The way your shoulders relaxed and your face became peaceful when you held my babies. You were absolutely head over heels for the small humans I love more than everything. That’s maybe the best part of our story.