Father's Day Without Dad
I wrote this for my father's memorial six years ago. We had a concert, told stories, and read poetry instead of a wake or funeral. Some Father's Day sting more than others. This is one of them.
Three months have passed
since we flew to Minneapolis
and drove madly through
the winter rain,
to see you at dawn,
to be with you
for the last time.
You weren’t communicating,
not really.
You could nod or
shake your head,
let us know if the pain
was bad,
or worse.
You laughed when I said,
“You really know how to
throw a party.”
And I guess that
was your last word
to me.
And when the day slowed,
I crawled into your bed
and slept beside you.
Your fragile frame long
and delicate against me,
your throbbing heart
tattooing my soul,
and your breath by turn
shallow or deep,
raspy or full.
I longed for whispers,
for parting wisdom
or comfort.
I, just your little girl
in the end.
But you only gave me
memories,
that I already had.
My life with Dad.
Daddy.
Your habit was to whistle
no matter where you were.
We called it “The Locator”
and could identify
and find you by following
your unique trills and tones.
I’d give anything to hear
that now…
but I pause, and see the past
instead.
A six year old me
sitting beside you on the couch
head against your side
your heartbeat guiding mine.
An afternoon of football
was at hand.
The smell of liquor
punctuated the air as you spoke.
I just liked the color of the field
and the half-time show.
I adored the sting of vodka
tonic in my nose,
watching the tendrils of
smoke drift, from the end
of your cigarette to
meet the plume from
Grampa’s Tiparillo.
I adored the fact that you
sat through the half-time
entertainment just to
please me.
At ten, you gave me my
first camera—a Kodak
Dualflex, with a
viewfinder that opened
from the top, and had
an extremely impressive
flash attachment.
It was a great camera
for a little girl
whose hands shook regularly
and without rhythm.
Personal earthquakes
destined to destroy any
thoughts of a photography
career…
but you didn’t care.
You liked the way I saw
the world
and this made me pay
attention.
Fourteen, as an agitated
adolescent, I fought
invisible foils,
and watched the late, late,
late show movies on T.V.
with you—
on school nights.
We dined on over salted popcorn
and split Claussen dills.
And Mom would look at us,
shaking her head
mumbling a few words
about me needing to go to bed.
But we were in cahoots,
bonding over old movies and food,
and late night reruns of
Dr. Who…
But it wasn’t enough,
not for me.
I gave in to the urge
to flee, for no reason.
I think I was looking
for someone
who would love me as
much, or even more,
than you loved Mom…
She was who you
spoke of the most,
her beauty, her presence,
anchoring you both.
Of course, decades
passed—before I
was old enough to
find this. And I
thank you, for
teaching me patience.
But back to those years,
when I launched into
selfish mode, the
prodigal daughter,
wasting her life with
youthful extravagance.
You waited.
Standing by the windows,
willing me home.
And soon enough,
your hope pulled me back
to the place of
my Mother’s love;
and together, you nourished
and enfolded me.
But my heart will always
break a little, when I think
of you, waiting,
beside those windows,
in the small hours of night…
You’ve supported my efforts,
Dad. Well, mostly.
You were never a fan of
my teenage dream—The
Gong Show. “That’s not
a goal!” you scolded,
infuriated.
And you talked me right
out of enlisting, saying
I had problems with
authority—that I’d end up
in the brig—that getting in
shape was no reason
to join the army.
Of course you were right,
and I think the
recruiters may still be
mad at you, a bit.
To them I was a number,
a quota filled.
To you I was your stubborn,
free-minded daughter,
who followed crazy dreams
to dark places.
But you never loved me less
for this.
And now I understand
that you were proud of
my existence,
that you felt the earth
was a better place
because of the children
you gave it.
You were so very proud
of all of us.
And I know, Daddy,
that it was better, this planet,
with your presence—
for the way you let
it fill you, for the way
you held your place
in it.
And I will wake up,
on Father’s Day,
and picture you
sailing;
sailing into as many sunsets
as you imagine,
with every dog we’ve
ever had, windblown and
poised along the prow,
tails wagging and
occasionally
glancing back,
smiles glinting in their eyes,
because life with you
is good.
And I picture you
smiling back at your life,
at us,
because it was good,
it was enough.
Happy Father’s Day…
Daddy.
