This past Friday my husband and I traveled west (wait . . . was it really west? . . . maybe east? . . . we went toward Memphis . . . so west . . . definitely west . . . maybe . . .). Can you tell I’m directionally challenged? More specifically, we headed to Collierville to see our oldest grandson as Aaron Samuels in Mean Girls. Of course, he was wonderful (absolutely no bias involved); it was the first of a three-day, four performance run, and the whole cast nailed it. There wasn’t a weak player in the bunch, and I enjoyed every minute of it, even if it did keep me out past my midnight curfew.
The Saturday evening performance was followed by a cabaret (of which we had no knowledge until after we had our tickets . . . insert frowny face emoji here). Each of the kids involved in the production—in front of or behind the scenes—was allowed to sing a song of their choice. Wilson settled on “This Is the Moment” from Jekyll and Hyde, a musical that debuted on Broadway when Wilson’s dad was eight. I don’t know how these kids find these songs, but he not only found it, he brought the house down with it. And, although we didn’t get to watch in person, his mom was kind enough to post clips on Facebook.
I sat there and watched as he poured his heart and soul into that song . . . and I cried. I cried because he did such a fantastic job with a song that was so moving and emotional and difficult, and I was beyond proud. I cried because I’m old and hormonal and tired. I cried because, well . . . because my father wasn’t there . . . my father who will never get to know this amazing young man . . . my father who would have beamed with pride while watching his oldest great-grandson perform.
He wasn’t there . . . and that was probably a good thing since he’s been dead for almost 14 years (which is SO hard to believe) and, even if he was still alive, he’d be 92 (also hard to believe) and probably not spending the evening in Collierville and getting home after midnight. Although with him, you could never know. If nothing else, he was unpredictable.
As I thought about all the things my dad is missing . . . how much he would have delighted in all of his great-grands and how unfair it was that Death cheated him out of that opportunity, I realized although he may be dead, he’s still very much alive.
He’s alive in Wilson’s beautiful voice and in all of his mannerisms (which are exactly like his dad’s which are exactly like my dad’s). He’s alive in Anderson’s creative genius and wickedly dry sense of humor. And I’m sure as Cora and Malcolm grow older, they’ll provide glimpses of my father as well. As long as these children live . . . and their children . . . and their children’s children . . . my father will live, too. They may not have known him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a part of them.
Bits and pieces of our lives—those traits that define us . . . that make us who we are—will survive long after we are gone, and not just in the memories of those we leave behind. There are moments I can literally see my parents in my children and my grandchildren . . . and that's a double-edged sword, bringing both grief and comfort. Grief because it reminds me of what I’ve lost . . . and comfort because it reminds me I didn’t really lose it at all.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
