Hey, Dad.
Ready for this? It’s been five years since you left us. FIVE YEARS. I assume that you’re aware of this through the ether- but I’m not exactly sure about how time works where you are. (That said, I’m not exactly sure about how time works where I am. Long story.)
Dad, when you died, I thought I was the bravest I had ever been- had ever had to be. Working on your obituary, pulling together your collection of favorite songs for the celebration of your life, holding the stories and grief and feelings from your legion of loved ones as they shared them…honestly, some days it was hard to just take in enough air and breathe like a person with automated bodily functions. Throw in a baby, a toddler, a preschooler, an intense anger at God, and the daily reminder that kicking people is bad and, well, I gave myself a gold star in the field of Holding It All Together.
A year and a half later, my immune system fell apart.
A year and a half after that, my brain fell apart. (But only for a little bit.)
Here’s more weirdness about time:
It doesn’t stop. When you’re crying so hard you’re fighting not to choke, it feels like time should stop, that it has stopped. But it never does, never even skips a millisecond.
This used to devastate me. (Sometimes it still does, but only for a little bit.)
I tapped out for a bit, but then sent my firstborn to kindergarten. Then the second kid. And then- inexplicably- the baby. I started a business, the one that you and Mom had encouraged me to start in adolescence.
We fixed up the house- and fixed and fixed and fixed- and, oh my goodness. The back deck! The new door! Floors that glow like the Tuscan sun and trim so crisp you’d almost expect it to salute. You taught us to measure twice and cut once, complete the hard tasks first, just do it right the first time, and never start a plumbing project on a Sunday night. You’d be so proud of us. I know you are proud of us.
And- just wanted to make sure we’re all cool with this- five years after your death it sure seems like I’m…buying your home? P.J. and I are moving the kids halfway across the country to turn them into New Englanders and raise them in the home that you and Mom loved so much, surrounded by family and friends and trees.
I think you’re on board with this plan.
You certainly haven’t let me know otherwise. (And you’re not exactly subtle when there’s something which needs knowing.)
For example.
The story I wrap around myself like a blanket when time feels too unforgiving:
At 2 a.m. on the morning you died, I abruptly woke. You know how people say that silence can be deafening? On that early morning, the silence felt almost heavy; nothing coming from the Chicago streets, the heater stopped making noise, even the baby monitor’s hum fell silent. And even though I usually wake up slowly, groggily, and with no shortage of difficulty, this time I was wholly alert.
I smelled the breakfast sandwich you always prepared for me at the deli, a #6 with ham on a hard roll (hold the home fries). It confused me. It made me fairly hungry. But it also gave me a little clue as to what might be going on.
“…Dad?” I whispered, which if you think about it, is an extremely bizarre thing to ask to your bedroom ceiling.
You squeezed my hands. Both of them at the same time, unmistakably.
“Are you…okay?”
A wave of pure joy shoved against me and into my chest. I sat there for a moment- with you, Dad- and allowed myself to experience the first uncomplicated moment of peace I’d had in months.
“I love you, Dad.”
I know I felt you kiss my forehead, I’d know that feeling anywhere. Then- you were gone. A car zoomed by outside, the heater whirred to life, and Jasper’s white noise machine soothed in the distance.
I almost didn’t call Mom because of the lateness of the hour, but it’s like you guys always said; we could call at any time if we needed you, no questions asked.
She picked up on the first ring.
She told me how you’d died ten minutes earlier.
And she reminded me of how you’d never go to sleep before making sure your girls were all safe in their beds at night.
Since time is all relative these days, here’s another out-of-order memory:
Your 40th birthday. I was ten and a half years old. (Nora’s age!) Back then, people celebrated 40th birthdays with themed parties and over-the-hill jokes and Grim Reaper birthday cards. Mom threw you an oldies party- 50s music and greaser attire and poodle skirts for days. Parents of my school friends flooded through the door all night, and beloved neighbors from Cape Cod and beyond drove up to celebrate you.
And even though the kids were having a party of our own in the basement, I kept sneaking up to marvel. You danced with me, to Buddy Holly and Elvis and girl groups galore. You laughed more that night than I’d ever heard- a full, head-thrown-back kind of laugh, the one that signified that this right here was the good stuff, what it’s really all about.
I had so much fun with you that night, Dad, watching you welcome in the crowds, an arm around Mom, and both of you looking fresh from the sock hop. But I couldn’t help wondering, why were you guys dressed up like something out of a black and white comic strip? It all seemed a little…antique-y.
It took me way too long to realize that, since you were born in 1951, this would’ve been the era- and music and “costuming”- of your babyhood and youth.
Kind of like how the ’80s are for me.
Dad, I’ll be 40 in two months.
Frankly, I’m planning on being utterly thrown by that one. (But only for a little bit.)
Because shortly after my 40th birthday, I’ll be starting fresh in a new (old) home, and I’ll continue the work of teaching my kids about Monty Python and the Beach Boys and how there’s always room for friends at the table and the importance of hiring out for electrical work. After all, I learned from the very best.
So why shouldn’t they?
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