The Indy 500 Race Car game is gone.
It used to be in the left corner as you exited out of our Walmart... right beside the big crane game. I noticed the other day as I was leaving that it's gone.
I froze right there at the exit, shopping cart and all, and stared at that empty spot. How many times did Paul crawl up in that seat? I used to hate that thing because I knew it would take every negotiating skill I had to get past it without stopping. "Pleeeeeeeeze, Mommy," he would say, "Just one minute?" I almost always gave in (he was hard to resist), and the ritual would begin: first, he'd stick his hand in the coin dispenser to see if there were any abandoned quarters there. Then, he circle the entire machine, looking under it for any run-away coins that might have found a place to hide. Finally, he'd end up in the seat and watch the display. He never actually played the game, he just watched the "promo" part and pretended to drive.
It was one of those big arcade games, so I'm sure that moving it was no small task. I wonder if the people who hauled it off had any idea the memories they were taking with them...
As I crossed the Walmart parking lot, the reality hit me that in little ways and big ways, life is changing. And that makes me sad.
Right now, our family dynamic is pretty unchanged since Paul's death. There are still so many memories of him. But as little things change - like the Indy 500 Race Car game at Walmart - it seems that Paul gets farther and farther away. I have this fear that his memory is somehow slipping away. Irrational? Maybe. Maybe not.
Whit is now 6, and very soon, he's going to hit that milestone that I've been dreading since the day Paul died: on March 19, 2009, he'll be older than Paul.... older than his older brother.
Jack was a baby 10 years ago. At the time, it was the most unforgetable and amazing thing that had ever happened to me. Now, however, it's hard to remember him as a baby.
So... what happens to my memories of Paul 10 years from now? Jack will be 20 - probably a junior in college. Whit will be 16 (and, hopefully, doing his best to stay out of trouble). The Legos will long be put away and the swords and nerf guns will find their way to the attic. Where does a 6 year old boy fit into that family? Will my memories of Paul still be so vivid? Will Jack and Whit still see a toy or hear a song and be prompted to tell a funny story about Paul?
And what about this house?... this is where Paul lived his whole life. He died in our bedroom, for crying out loud. How do I sell this house to strangers who have no idea the things that have happened within these walls? Moving would mean leaving behind so many, many memories. And yet, do we stay here forever? Maybe. Maybe not.
And what about when I'm 60?...70?...80? They'll no longer be playing songs on the radio that remind me of Paul, Jeff Gordon won't be driving the 24 car, and no one will have heard of Zathura or Nacho Libre.
Life goes on. I hate that saying. I hate it with everything in me. I hate it because it means things will change. I hate it because it means leaving behind a precious 6 year old boy.
But mostly, I hate it because it's true.
We finally got Paul's permanent marker placed a couple of weeks ago. There was nothing satisfying in it.
