I remember the feel of the bark on the tree against my palms and against my cheek, the tricky slickness of the bottoms of my mary janes against the skirting of the trunk and roots. I was five. I could feel wisps of hair from the loose bun falling around my face and lilting across my eyes as I blew kisses toward the camera at Dad’s beckoning. It was a pretty day and I felt pretty in my dress with the white top and dark blue skirt (were there polka dots?) And lacy socks and mary jane’s. I felt pretty being photographed like a model and hanging out with my dad. He was thin and his hair was still black, waved back with a beautiful hairline I see now when I look at photos. He was cool. He could sing beautifully. He could take beautiful photographs. He could tell wonderful stories. He could write words to move you to tears or laughter. He could take the big rabbit out of its cage behind Granny’s house and let me pet it. He could drive fast through the mountains. He could make up really good stories about people in restaurants eating at nearby tables. He could work all night. He could win writing, advertising and marketing awards. He could sell anything. He could only write when he had a deadline and a paycheck. He could be gone for long stretches of time. He could hurt my feelings faster than anyone. He could make things that didn’t make sense make sense. He could explain why people were the way they were. He could pray with his eyes open. He could help millions of people get through national disasters or a political crisis. He could negotiate the release of prisoners or a change in policy. He could get splinters out of my finger. He could pick out the best puppies. He could bake a chicken that had cinnamon as a main seasoning ingredient. He could order the best steaks. He could help me map out a better plot sequence. He could decorate a house—perfect compositions of wall hangings and furniture. He could make things sound better. Or worse. He could move and uproot his family every two to three years. He could make up the best words like disgustipating. He could make me feel like the most special and important person in the universe. He could make me feel suffocated. He could make me angry. He could make me laugh. He could make me cry. He could NOT beat me at racquet ball once I turned 12. Otherwise, he could do anything. Except prevent vascular disease from taking over his life. He can still make me miss him and love him and forgive him for being human like the rest of us. He can still be the best dad ever. He can still speak to me. He can still make me laugh and cry. He can still make me feel special and loved. He can still make me wish he were here to eat Calabash shrimp at the beach, or drink cherry ibc colas, or watch tennis. He can still be here with me, for me, in my memory and in my ways. I hope he can forgive me for not knowing a lot of things I wish I’d known...about how and how much he loved me...about misunderstandings that seem to linger...about how really really far death can separate you...about how impossible it is to know the story when it wasn’t told... I put all of this into a pretty box of joy without sides, wrapped in paper of unlimited gratitude, and ribboned in swirls of grieving that will hopefully one day be untied...to find us all there—all the family for generations—together inside (and out) once again...
how weird was that? just streamed it all of a sudden... and i might post it but I’d have to name it something like unending tribute to dad through cycles of grief and joy and gratitude...and hope...
i hope you have a great father's day and will celebrate your dad in a special way. i'm grabbing moon pies and cherry ibc colas and going to the beach...
