Or, rather, I saw someone who looked just like my father. For real. He was one of the clinicians Tuesday night at the honor band my student was in. From the back of the auditorium, I could see the resemblance, it was that striking. I went up and introduced myself (because that's what all good band directors do) and made small talk about the importance of exposing this generation of band students to music such as Holst's Suite in E-flat, but the entire time I was focused on his face and how uncanny the resemblance was.
His picture was on the website for the honor band, and I showed my husband. He immediately saw it. All he could say was "wow."
I wonder if there will ever be a time when I don't think about my father daily, or at least, where I don't think of him in an unhappy way. I wonder if I want that day to come. I don't know if I'm ready to let go of the hurt. It's been nearly three years since he passed and I still cry...I'm wiping my eyes typing this, actually. It's most certainly not something I discuss with anyone except my husband. I don't know if I really ever will.
...
Enough of the Debbie Downer shit. I bought the pummelo. Thing's half the size of a baseball. I figured one was enough to share between us. It's a kind of unnerving shade of green, too. Not dark green like a good lime. Kind of a light, lemon-lime kind of color that I hesitate to label "chartreuse." More to come on the adventures of the pummelo...pomelo...whatever.
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