I bought you a card

I bought this card for you Dad, or for myself I guess. You had a rotating pair of these New Balance sneakers. Mom did too, until she ditched them for cuter kicks.

When I saw this card, I knew it was the perfect card for you. You would have laughed pretty hard and wondered if I had it specially made. I’d struggle to find a gift to go with it, knowing full well that this card may have been enough for you.

I picked up the card to take a picture of it. I can’t send it to you, so why spend $7.95 to give this card to no one?

But maybe this card is for me. It’s a visual reminder of something you loved. And it is a message to me that even though you are not here, you still keep me balanced.

When I looked at this card a few hours later, I immediately started crying. How could this card that I just found bring out so much emotion? How can this card that you don’t even know about make my heart sink?

There’s the obvious sadness that I found this perfect card that I can’t give to you. I’ll always find things I want to give to you. And I’ll never be able to do that again.

Then there is the notion that even without you here, I play out how you will respond, what advice you might give, or how you would handle something. I can still hear you in my head, yet I can’t know if I’ve got it right. I can only guess.

And then there is this reality that since you’ve been gone, I’ve never felt more off balance. My life is like a gymnastics center. Some days, I’m just trying to walk straight without falling. Other days, I’m cleaning swinging from the uneven bars, high one moment, low the next, and flipping around until I’m upside down. And other days, I’m just running towards the vault, hoping to leap high enough and land on my feet.

I know you are not here to tell me how to stay balanced. All I know is that I had to buy this card for you, and for me too. And if all I got out of it was the opportunity to bring out the waterworks and write this letter to you, then it was $7.95 well spent.