During the worst part of my recent illness, my father came to stay with me a few days. As it happened, we had a good deal of snow and ice during that time and the poor man couldn’t have left if he had wanted to! We were snowbound.

And it was wonderful.

The amount of precipitation we had in Middle Tennessee that caused a panic and empty bread shelves at the Food Lion wouldn’t have even caused a school delay when my son and I lived in Latrobe, PA; but, they have the proper removal equipment there and we just don’t have it here. We don’t get that kind of precipitation often enough to make it economically feasible to have snow plows all over town. And, frankly, a snow plow doesn’t do much good with ice anyway; so, Dad and I were stuck in the house where we talked, rested and read in front of a fire we kept going for almost the whole week.

As I’ve told you, I adore my father. There are a great many things this imperfect man and I disagree about, but that just makes for interesting conversation. Mother nearly died giving birth to my sister and she was very, very ill after having me, as well. So, with both of us, Dad was the one who took care of us early on – and he still does it. I remember him running across the yard and swooping me up out of the fire ant bed I had climbed into, and him carrying me into the hospital when I had pneumonia as a toddler. More recently he insisted on coming to take care of me a few years ago when I had my tonsils removed and couldn’t swallow even the pain meds. (Incidentally, I certainly hope the stories are true and that it hurts worse as an adult than it does as a child. That was worse than labor!) Those are just three of the countless times Dad has been there to help me. My father is not a man who often expresses love verbally; however, he never lets me forget that he loves me and that he worries about me. Even with his expansive vocabulary, he is a man of deed more than a man of word. Words lie. Deeds don’t.

A friend at work lost her father last week in a house fire. We have all grieved for this sweet woman in her loss; but, I have to admit that part of my grief is not for her. It’s for myself. I know that the day will come when Dad won’t be there when I’m unwell. I won’t be able to call to “check his pulse.” He won’t read us ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. He won’t be peppering conversations with stories of his years in the forest and with Southern idioms like “useless as hip pockets on a hog.” Someday he won’t be here and I will be devastated at the loss of my father and, again, at the loss of my friend. But, until that awful day comes, I will treasure every chance I get to be with him and, after, I will treasure the memories of being snowbound.

After weeks of anticipation, my son was home for Christmas! Know how I knew? I walked into the bathroom and saw that empty roll. And, um, that doesn’t happen when it’s just me and the horde.

I had to laugh at this thing that drove me nuts when he was growing up, but which was such a welcome sight on the night of the 22nd. I knew that in short order there would also be no clean towels and that all of the used ones would be in his bedroom, somehow having made it completely under the bed. It’s Y chromosome towel sorcery, I’m sure of it. And, let me just make this clear – I loved it. Then again, he was here for only eleven days. After about 14 days of it, I’d probably have been ready to box some ears!

I’ve never been married or even lived with a romantic partner; so, my son is my only experience in dealing with the irritations that come with sharing space with someone you love every day for many years. I’ve had roommates, of course, some of whom drove me batty, others of whom I drove batty (that’s for you, Jeannie Kay). Now that my son has been away for a couple of years, I’ve gotten used to doing things my way, in my time. Having him home reminded me of dealing with another’s way and another’s time – a conversation I had with him some months ago regarding a minor dispute with one of his roommates.

At the time, he was working four jobs and, honestly, I don’t know when he slept! One night, he had cooked his dinner, but not washed up his dishes. One of his roommates was annoyed about this and said something to him about it. He was, in turn, annoyed at having been taken to task over something he would have gotten to in his own time. I don’t recall having this specific incident with any of my roommates; but, given my rather, um, freeform housekeeping style, it’s likely that I did. Being WAAAAAY on the other side of this conflict now, I asked him if the dishes that he didn’t wash were his or if they belonged to the house. “They belong to the house,” he said. “So,” I said, “when another person wanted to use these dishes, they had to come find you and get you to wash them before they could cook their own food. Is that about right?” “Well, when you put it that way….” he said.

As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder and, sometimes, that’s true. Without him here, I forget all the little, really petty things about him that irritate me over time. And, hopefully, he forgets the little, petty things about me that irritate him, as well! So, after a year without his sweet little face in my house, I just looked at the empty roll, laughed and replaced it. Then, after the fastest eleven days in the history of time, I had to take him back to the airport and put him back on a plane that would return him to the adventure that is the life he is building.

But, unlike last year, this time, I left him with only a few tears and a giant hollow place in my chest. He returned to his adventure and I returned to the disappointment of toilet paper on the roll and a cabinet full of clean towels.