May 15 was my dad's birthday. May 15, 2005 was his last birthday. It was sunny and warm, and he grilled cheeseburgers for us. We sat in his backyard, in lawn chairs near his Japanese koi pond. Owing to distance and my evil stepmonster and her reciprocal, mutual affection for my dad's offspring, we generally only saw my dad on holidays, his birthday, our birthdays, Father's Day. I always remember his birthday being sunny and warm.
This year marks the fifth anniversary of my dad's death. Several of my friends lost their dads last year, and I have reassured them it gets easier. And it has gotten easier. But sometimes, it comes rushing back and the loss feels palpable and new, like it just happened. And this year, this May 15, I really miss him. His sarcastic, at times caustic wit, his politically incorrect sense of humor, his dark eyes exactly like mine and my daughter, his granddaughter who he never got to meet. Yes, he was the tough guy who pushed a burning plane off his base in Vietnam, who scared the hell out of my sister's beaus with a single look, and who his co-workers called Rambo at work. But he had this inner gentleness. Gentleness is not the right word. He was much more emotional and passionate than my mom. Kindness, maybe. Behind this gruff, tough exterior, he was kind. Taking my nephew downstairs into his basement at Christmas to feed the Japanese koi that he kept there during our freezing months.
Today was dreary and rainy and cold. (Yes, more weather talk). My dad hated the cold, and yet, he spent his entire life in it, working outside in it. He loved going on trips to warm, exotic locales. To see giant turtles and snorkel, to watch scantily-clad women frolicking on the beach. About our "fair" state and its highly changeable weather, he always said "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute and it will change."
Anyway, I woke up feeling empty and sad, the steady rain providing a maudlin soundtrack. My sunshine girl asked me if she could sit on my lap, and as I held her close and breathed in the scent of sunshine and joy and loveliness, she told me that she loved me and gave me a big hug. I told her that I love her hugs and that I really needed one today because I was sad. She turned and looked into my eyes and touched my face and asked me why I was sad. I told her that it was my dad's birthday, and she asked if I was sad that I missed his birthday party. I reminded her that my daddy was in heaven and our guardian angel but that I really missed him today. She said: "you don't miss me, because I am not dead, right?" I have explained to her that my daddy is dead but being 4, she does not grasp the finality of death and easily tosses the word "dead" around. Hell, I am going to be 40 all too soon, it has been nearly 5.5 years, and I still cannot fully grasp that my dad is dead.
Dead. Just writing that word made my heart seize and the tears flow. What is it that makes certain words seem so taboo? We try to disguise the word and make it more palatable with sayings like "we lost him" or "he passed away" or "he is no longer with us" or "he has gone onto a better place." What horse shit. I do it too but it's utter horse shit and I feel Holden Caulfield's disdain for phoniness even though I am equally phony for mouthing similar platitudes. My dad is fucking dead. He will never breathe in the sunshine that is his granddaughter, who has his eyes, his no-bullshit look, his love of nature and gardening. He will never get to feel the love and light of her hugs, her kisses (real and fake), her wonderfully twisted sense of humor, her laugh that is joy and silliness personified. She will never get to feed the koi with him or sit on his lap and pull at his beard. I will never get to hear another man, another person tell me that I was the best thing that he ever did. I will never get to argue politics with him again; he probably would have thought that Sarah Palin was hot. I will never get to watch another Michigan football game with him or a Tigers' game or listen to him rail against the government, his wife, or the democrats.
He is dead. I tell my daughter that Papa John is our angel in heaven and watches over us and keeps us safe. But I have never been sure that I believe in heaven or angels. I was raised to believe that there is a heaven, but I am a doubter, a skeptic, and have never been able to take things on faith. I wish that I could but I cannot. My dad was a doubter and skeptic and questioner but he did believe in God. He claimed to have seen Jesus when he returned from Vietnam.
Later in life, after having a falling out with the religion of my youth, I attended a Catholic law school and was impressed with the compassion, intelligence, and social justice of the Jesuits. My ex's
Yet, still I doubt. Not in the existence of God or a higher power. I do believe in that. I am just not sure that I believe in the constructs and tenets of religion, like heaven and hell. It seems to me like it is a way to hedge our bets and a useful construct to keep humankind from contemplating the inescapable truth--that we are all born to die. I hope that I am wrong. That there is a heaven after we fulfill our ultimate destiny and that it is filled with unimaginable joy and peace and that it is never, ever cold.
The last time we celebrated my birthday together at a steak house playing country music, you expressed a desire for some rock-n-roll, and specifically mentioned Honky Tonk Woman. You also loved One Night in Bangkok. These are for you, dad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Kve_N8rmmQ (Honky Tonk Woman)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9mwELXPGbA (One Night in Bangkok)
No comments:
Post a Comment