Bringing Him Back

For my Father on his Birthday

Recently, while conjuring up memories of my mom, (through a collaborative writing project with my niece,) I found myself distracted by thoughts of my father. My dad, gone 25 years before her, gets less of the spotlight in my current tapestry of loss. There was a time when he occupied the whole of it but with age and the need for more real estate in the grief neighborhood of my heart, the edges of the pain have blurred, and with it some memories of this kind and gentle soul. As I foraged through remembrances of my mother, I felt him calling for his turn.

At fifteen, the age when I lost him to a drunk driver one morning on his way to work, I was minimally a decade away from becoming a mature adult. As a “teenager in mourning,” I made a lot of questionable choices in the wake of his death. This post-death chunk of time is vivid, glaring, and easily accessed. But at times it exists as a roadblock, obscuring my view of finding the father I had as a young girl. These are the memories I seek to retrieve.

How many steps, in miles, did he log with me on his shoulders? I don’t recall a single  “No, Maddie. Walk on your own,” at my requests to be placed aloft, perched with an expansive view as far as my vision would carry. Physical affection being a part of our family DNA, I stood on his feet as we danced in the living room. How strong he was, lifting me from my elbows clear above his head! Wrapping me in a towel after my bath, he carried me as I giggled wildly, naming me his “sack of potatoes,” as he tossed me into the air and onto my bed. Later, under my covers, assumed to be sleeping, I’d listen through the walls to the inaudible whispers of my parents, alone for the first time in their day. Their voices, my mom’s a flirtatious song, and my dad’s a low and confident hum were not ones I recognized but innately understood to be good, and private, belonging solely to them. I felt safe in that contented hush.

The short period when he was between jobs was pure magic.  My mom, a first-grade teacher, left him in charge of things that were usually in her domain. “Make sure her hair is brushed for school,” was one of many instructions given as she left for the day. My waist-long hair, knotted and unkempt, was no easy task. My father, unwilling to be the source of my tears, would skim the top layer with one stroke of the hairbrush and declare the job done. Happily, I’d head off to school, a tangled, feral mess. We both knew there would be consequences, but neither of us cared. Coming home for lunch, I felt special, not having to stay with the rest of the kids in the chaos and cacophony of the cafeteria. Sometimes he’d sneak us both to McDonald’s, with promises to keep this under wraps. “Mum’s the word,” he’d say, shoving handfuls of fries into his mouth with a grin, and I’d agree, slurping my vanilla milkshake, thrilled at the secrecy and our special pact. I cried the day he came home excited about being hired for a new job. The family celebrated but I was bereft.

He gave me sips of his pop, Diet Rite, but only if I finished my milk. He brought home sticks of gum from his office. He let me sit on his lap and interrupt his reading of the newspaper and he loved his newspaper. Deeply. He attended, head bowed, with barely concealed laughter, each funeral I held for various hamsters of mine in our backyard. Helping me to bury the makeshift coffins made from empty margarine containers near the old tree with the tire swing swaying, he’d wipe away my solemn tears and say things like, “That Shana. She sure was a good one!” He let me interview him with a tape recorder, as I pretended to be a professional, “INTERVIEWER ON THE STREETS OF CHICAGO!” He laughed and laughed at my fake voices and inane questions and could hardly get his answers out. His warm brown eyes would crinkle and disappear through the laughing and then he’d take me in his arms and tell me he loved me.

A fan, he’d ask me to dance, play my flute, read a story I’d written. How talented he made me feel as he’d beam his beautiful smile. I could feel his pride, but more so I lived in the comfort of knowing he was where he wanted to be. Never sensing a pull from another direction, I flourished in the abundance of his presence.

A close family friend died unexpectedly young, and I observed as my dad stepped in to assist his widow, as she navigated finances, life insurance, and taxes. Patient as she broke down, practical as he advised, he helped to steady her shifting landscape and painful new world. When his older brother, (my Uncle Al,)  died on a train ride home from work, I watched him weep at the news, great mournful sobs wracking his body, and was stunned at the depths of his anguish. It was here I began the lessons of learning love equals risk, but sadness does not equal weakness.

My dad was all in. For me and my three siblings. He would race, arm wrestle, and throw baseballs. He taught us to play and love the game of ping pong. He let us bury him in the sand at the beach. He hated the beach. And he hated sand. He took us to Cubs games, and out for ice cream, and bagels. He showed up to plays, recitals, games, and award ceremonies. He held us if we cried and cheered as we triumphed. He didn’t yell, or lash out, or hit. Like sponges, we absorbed his love without worry, never imagining it would be taken so suddenly, so violently. He was good and compassionate and we were the lucky ones to be his children.

What began as a tenuous search has ended with what feels like communion. Awash with memories, I’m flooded and have to stop myself from going on and on and on. What a gift writing has turned out to be! Did I land where he is or did I bring him to me? Perhaps I simply needed reminding that he has been here all along, waiting, (patiently of course,) for me to remember. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.

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