as a daughter, I feel like I have far too many stories to simply pick one, far to many memories to select from. the truth is I could talk and share endlessly about my dad. he was the central pillar of stability in my life since the day I was born in so very many ways, on so many levels. he was larger than life to me, the way parents often tend to be. I wasnβt prone to following role models much growing up, but dad was among the few exceptions, his approach to life, his humor, and his talent in the realm of art something I find myself both admiring and aspiring towards every day. he always had an answer to any problem, or at least a way to figure one out, and observing his seemingly endless generosity towards others growing up forged my own approach to life and people. he was a whole entire half of the creation of my person and he filled every space of that half in every way possible.
I remember as a very young child when my parents had alternating shifts at work, mom during the day and dad later in the evening, our little routine of a bath, mickey mouse and the beanstalk watched on a blanket in the floor in the living room of our little house on blueberry hill, and a nap later followed by a ride in dads old truck to go get mom from work. one time I got so excited waiting for mom I kneeled on the old-fashioned hand crank that made the truck windows go up and down and closed my own head it in, dad swiftly coming to the rescue before anything but startled surprise could register.
I recall a specific memory of when my dad still used to paint more frequently when I was very little, a massive canvas spread across the floor that he let me help paint. I wish I could remember if we still had that painting, or which one it was, but the most important memory was of the experience I had simply creating with him.
I remember a time when I was about four where I was doodling in a notebook but became angry that I hadnβt the coordination or ability to translate what I was picturing onto the page and my dad kneeling down next to me after seeing my visible frustration and asking me for the pen I was using. he then took my little doodle and began to draw around it, expanding on it, and imparted to me a wisdom I have never forgotten and never failed to find applicable in so many areas of life: there are no mistakes in art. even if it doesnβt turn out the way you intended there is always something to be made of it, a way to transform it into something else, often even better and cooler than it was before.
I remember the honey lemon tea dad used to make for me when I was sick(and for silly pretend tea parties around Christmas time), the way heβd make me gargle with salt water when my throat hurt even though I hated it(and he was right, it always helped), the biscuits and gravy heβd make when I was craving a comfort food, the way heβd stand at the sink and peel and cut pears to snack on, never failing to offer me a slice. I remember the way heβd braid my hair every night after a shower, the fit I would throw when he would cut my nails for me as a kid but also the way Iβd beg him to paint them for me before I was able to myself.
my mom was the party planner of my childhood, organizing and throwing some of the coolest gatherings for birthdays and holidays, and dad swooped in as the man of action and entertainment, going out of his way to pick up my friends, take us all wherever we wanted to go, imparting upon us great wisdoms we were too young to grasp but also silly stories we delighted in, that I would often beg him to repeat. on the mornings after sleepovers in our home he would make everyone pancakes, finding true joy in simply being a dad to more than just myself. so many of my friends growing up loved him, loved both my parents, loved coming to our house.
dad was the driving force behind so many of the hobbies I still pursue and at the center of so many more. he inspired my love for aquatics and freshwater fish keeping by giving me my first aquarium, my love for crochet when he purchased me my first hooks and some yarn, never out of project ideas and suggestions. he discovered and brought me to my first anime convention as well as every one after while I still lived at home, handed me novels heβd read on airplanes that he thought I would love(and he was never wrong). he was right in the middle of my years spend riding horses, learning how to groom and tack and braid for me for horse shows, always right there to help me and my friends out at the barn with anything and everything we needed. in retrospect I feel like he took care of my horse better than I did most of the time.
every time I make a cup of tea and remember our shared love of it, the way heβd always order the jasmine at any restaurant that offered it, the one time we collectively accidentally spent an embarrassing amount of money behind moms back on specialty tea in a small over priced mall store because we wanted to try a little of everything. I remember hours-long drives to all sorts of destinations for all sorts of reasons where we would just talk endlessly over a background of whatever was on the radio about anything on our minds, but also how dad would turn up the most corny songs and roll down the windows to sing loudly along in an effort to teasingly embarrass me as a teenager. how heβd always tell me it was his job to embarrass me as much as possible. I regret not taking and holding his jokingly offered hand on the way into target more often when I thought I was too old for it.
when I was at my most sick in the spring of 2016 and recovering after surgery in the hospital, my dad never left my side the whole week-long stay, caring for me in a way that had even the nurses impressed. the first few days I spent in a ridiculous amount of pain and discomfort, demanding he fluff my pillows so often it became a joke between us in the years that followed. I think all the time about how I couldnβt be there to fluff his pillows for him in these last years, that I was never able to return the favor like Iβd always promised him I would if ever the time arose.
I remember the last time I saw my dad in person, the emotional hug that we shared on a quiet morning before parting that held all the words neither of us were capable of saying aloud. I remember knowing, deep down, that was the last hug we would ever share, the last time I would ever look him in the eye. I think he knew it too, the way he always seemed to know everything.
I could keep going. I could write books upon books about my memories with my dad, about the stories he both created and shared throughout my lifetime, and it would never be enough. five years of knowing and waiting for the inevitable hadnβt been enough time to prepare for his exit from my life, and thirty-three years hadnβt been long enough to spend knowing him. no amount of time would have, probably, but it still feels so very little, that what Iβve been left with is an entire half of my existence that how exists as a past with so much of my life still ahead of me. I sit every day knowing that every experience I have going forward is one heβll never witness, that every friend I make is one heβll never get to meet, that every milestone I reach is one heβll never get to be proud of, and every struggle I have is one I no longer have his brain to pick over.
the loss of my dad is not something I see myself ever finding true peace with, something I will likely never get over or around, that no amount of words or memory could ever fully describe or encompassβ¦but every good story has to come to an end, right? and what is an end but an avenue for another beginning?
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