Father's Day Morning: a Remembrance

My father died on March 18, 2008. We both said we were 39, though he was 93. I don't have the feeling of raw grief I had when I first lost him, but I do "see" him unexpectedly, here and there, on any given day. Memories can make me smile or hit me unexpectedly, with the sweetness of remembrance and sharp little pangs of sorrow.

I think of his face the day I told him my (former) husband had proposed. My uncles Archie and Sy were visiting with their wives, Helen and Vivian. My mother must have expressed some frustration that I was living with someone and not getting married, because when we told them, standing together at the basement bar while my father made drinks, my Aunt Vivian said, "See?" to my mother. "I told you it would happen."

My dad almost froze, mid pour, and I will never forget how still he became. I don't know if it was that he didn't like my choice or that he wasn't ready for his daughter to be married, but that stillness was one of the most endearing things I ever saw him do. And he did a lot of them.

I think of how wonderful my father was with my son Josh when he was a little boy. On one particular day, said little boy's mama was beyond exhausted, and we were visiting my parents, and my super-energetic two year old wanted mama to play. I asked my dad if he would hang with my son while I took a nap.

My dad readily agreed, and no sooner did I close my bedroom door than I heard immense and heartbreaking wails coming from my son. Luckily, my father wasn't freaked by them, and started to talk to Josh about someone named Ambrose. "We have to find him," my father said, because otherwise he'll lose our treasure. And I promise you. He HAS our treasure.

Somehow, after talking passionately and persistently to Josh for at least seven minutes, my dad got his grandson to stop crying and to become interested in finding Ambrose. They actually went out looking for him, though I have no idea how my father finessed the fact that Ambrose didn't exist and therefore, couldn't be found.

My son didn't seem to notice it. When they returned from their walk, my father made a snack for both of them, and by the time I woke up from my nap (which may have been about 45 minutes), my son's eyes were dry and he was having a wonderful time.

I understand. I always had a wonderful time with my dad. There was nothing he could say or do that wasn't interesting. His voice was gravelly and warm (and I have never found anything I loved nearly as much), his eyes twinkly and his humor always on point. On this Father's Day, as on every one I've seen since he died in 2008, I think of him (and on a lot of other days, besides).

He passed on his red hair (from his mother), his sense of fun, his love of reading and walking and nature. When I remarried to my new husband who happens to be of a different faith, he said only, "I like him. And I can see how good he is for you." If I close my eyes, I can almost see the kindness in his eyes.

I have to close my eyes, though. I understand we none of us can live forever. I am grateful I got to have this man in my life, but I can't help missing him, and there's nothing to be done with that. My character Ruby in The Beat on Ruby's Street is crazy about her dad, and of course, she would have to be.

Another bit of sweetness that I got to manifest, through my writing. Sweetness and a pang.


Father's Day Pie: Jim the Photographer