Or maybe that happened when I was seven. Memory is funny. We often retain the essence of a thing without the details. And really, it’s the essence that matters. I do know for a fact, because there is photographic evidence, that when I was seven, you bought me a guinea pig. Mom was pissed. And I knew what it felt like to be “In Cahoots.”
When I was nine, we visited your brother and his family in Aberdeen. You introduced me to barbecued pork chops, a brand new food. As you and Uncle Larry grilled the meat amid beer bottles and barbecue sauce, you bragged about the amazing qualities of the feast to come, laughing together easily as brothers do. As I took my first bite, the flavor burst into my mouth, unlike anything I had ever eaten. I marveled at how I had managed to live nine whole years without knowing that this particular food existed. I had never seen anyone put a whole roll of paper towels on the table for napkins, and I had never eaten pork chops with my hands. It all felt so reckless! Mixed in with the flavor of the food was the feeling of belonging, as we sat at the picnic table sharing that meal, you and me, my aunt and uncle and cousins, I felt my place in our family. I knew love.
When I was twenty-five, you gave me away at my wedding. You had lost thirty pounds just so that you could wear your Navy dress whites, because you knew how important it was to me to have a beautiful wedding. You looked so handsome. Even thought you didn’t really approve, you supported me, you walked with me, and you put on your best face throughout the wedding and in the years to come. You gave me the freedom and space to make my own mistakes—that really is the only way we learn. And when I divorced, you never said “I told you so.” You simply let me know you were there for me. This was one of the most important things you taught me about being a parent. And I knew wisdom.
Right after I adopted my children, I remember hearing you on the phone with your sister, saying to her, “I’m sitting here talking to my Granddaughter.” The unmistakable pride and acceptance in your tone told me more than any words could have. Even more, you were telling my daughter that she was wanted and accepted by our family. Thank you for that. I remembered then how much your time meant to me when I was younger, little snippets of time like drops of water, memories still rippling far after their time is gone. Even when you were far away, halfway across the globe, I knew that somewhere in the world, you existed, and that was enough.
Right from the start, you and I have always had these separations, punctuated by hasty catching-up. Now I have children that have been through their own heartaches, and even though I can never take away all of their hurts, I know from you the most important things they need from me—my consistent presence, support even when they make the wrong choices, and unconditional love. You gave me those things to pass on to them. And even though we still live far away, after our loss this year, I refuse to pass up any opportunities to tell you how I feel. I am so thankful to be able to write something like this and know that you are around to read it from 1289 miles away.
I love you, Daddy. Happy Father’s Day.
