So now here we are--February 7th, 2011.
11 years ago my dad died.
It definitely left a mark, a scar, a burn, and it was deep and while it's not red and inflamed and bleeding anymore, it's still tender and a little pink. I'm looking for the day that it's an old white scar that you remember but doesn't still make you wince everytime you think of it, or bump it or whatever. I've written about his passing and its impact on me on a number of other occasions, you can go back and read those if you want more.
Over the past few days he has popped in and out of my thoughts everytime I realized it was February, and everytime a day passed and I thought "Oh, it's the 3rd of February. Dad died on the 7th." or "Oh, it's the 5th of February. It's Andy's birthday...and Dad died on the 7th." and "Oh, it's the 6th of February, tomorrow is Dad's death day." (Yeah, I call it his "Death Day.") and my thoughts were just of that...that the 7th of February was a marker--a marker for a terrible event that was unexpected, sudden and too early. I don't even have to think about memories of him, or his face or to try to strain and hear his voice to make my throat go a little tight in the back and to get kind of sad, it just automatically happens.
But I don't want to talk about my pain today. I just want to notate the following:
1971: Dad and Me
Dad, wherever you are, I wanted to tell you some things--as a memory maker and as an appreciator, please note the following...
Thank you for instilling in me, with my mother, a love of the ocean. Of turquoise seas and blue skies, of waves and storms, of creatures and plants. Thanks for taking us to the beach, and even though you made a big production of it when the water was cold, for going in the ocean. For running from the sand to the sea and diving in and jumping up and between the waves. For picking us up and throwing us, for bodysurfing and for dunking and playing.
Mom and I were talking the other day about the water accident you and I had down in Brazil at the Itanhaem beach. I'm sure you haven't forgotten it--and like I could. I still have marks on my body 30 years later from that disaster. She has told me that you felt bad about it--I hope you don't anymore. How could you know that the devil was in the water and was fixing to take us out of this life that day through heavy-handed, incoming tide rogue waves? At least you were o.k., and I didn't drown, so we are good. I still love the water, though even after all of these years sometimes I still dream the ocean is coming for me.
Thank you for opening our imaginations with books and reading, storytelling, and singing, with sharing fables, myths, legends and tales from around the world. Thank you for reading out loud and singing in the car with mom late at night when we were travelling. I know all of the words to every song off of the American Graffitti soundtrack just because of our cross-country drive in 1976 to New Jersey.
Thank you for music and for art. I know you didn't always like everything I loved when I was a teen, but oh I loved everything you loved when it came to music. I have the Doors, the Beatles, Santana, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass Band, Queen, Sergio Mendes and Brazil 66, Tom Jobim, Gal Costa and so many, many more, not to mention a very particular appreciation for a well done soundtrack. Thank you for the piano lessons that I underutilized and didn't appreciate as much as I should have. Did you know I can play the Celtic Harp now? That is a new acquisition since you died. I've been playing for almost 3 years now and have now played twice in public, once for a group of 300 and once for a group of 600. If I wouldn't have been so worried about botching it, I might have peed my pants. Fortunately for me, neither did I botch or pee...I think you would be proud.
Thank you for languages and for my appreciation of them, and for giving me the opportunity to learn so many. Thanks for making sure that I went to good schools and for helping me learn so much.
Most of all though Dad...I miss being able to call you up and just say "Hey! Guess what happened??" or "Hi Dad--I wanted to ask your advice about..." or "Hey Papa San--I read this awesome book," or "I heard this great album" or " I learned about XYZ and I thought you'd be interested." Thank you for all of the great conversations we had through the years. I'm sorry there weren't more.
You were always a sounding board for my discoveries, and a comfort for my miseries.
Lastly, I wrote you a note today, here it is:
Hey Dad--
It still sucks that you're dead. It never changes. I love you.
Peek in every now and again...give me a cold chill, a "Boo," or something. Anything would be better than the silence of the void.
I miss you.
Love,
Me.
Over the past few days he has popped in and out of my thoughts everytime I realized it was February, and everytime a day passed and I thought "Oh, it's the 3rd of February. Dad died on the 7th." or "Oh, it's the 5th of February. It's Andy's birthday...and Dad died on the 7th." and "Oh, it's the 6th of February, tomorrow is Dad's death day." (Yeah, I call it his "Death Day.") and my thoughts were just of that...that the 7th of February was a marker--a marker for a terrible event that was unexpected, sudden and too early. I don't even have to think about memories of him, or his face or to try to strain and hear his voice to make my throat go a little tight in the back and to get kind of sad, it just automatically happens.
But I don't want to talk about my pain today. I just want to notate the following:
1971: Dad and Me
Dad, wherever you are, I wanted to tell you some things--as a memory maker and as an appreciator, please note the following...
Thank you for instilling in me, with my mother, a love of the ocean. Of turquoise seas and blue skies, of waves and storms, of creatures and plants. Thanks for taking us to the beach, and even though you made a big production of it when the water was cold, for going in the ocean. For running from the sand to the sea and diving in and jumping up and between the waves. For picking us up and throwing us, for bodysurfing and for dunking and playing.
Mom and I were talking the other day about the water accident you and I had down in Brazil at the Itanhaem beach. I'm sure you haven't forgotten it--and like I could. I still have marks on my body 30 years later from that disaster. She has told me that you felt bad about it--I hope you don't anymore. How could you know that the devil was in the water and was fixing to take us out of this life that day through heavy-handed, incoming tide rogue waves? At least you were o.k., and I didn't drown, so we are good. I still love the water, though even after all of these years sometimes I still dream the ocean is coming for me.
Thank you for opening our imaginations with books and reading, storytelling, and singing, with sharing fables, myths, legends and tales from around the world. Thank you for reading out loud and singing in the car with mom late at night when we were travelling. I know all of the words to every song off of the American Graffitti soundtrack just because of our cross-country drive in 1976 to New Jersey.
Thank you for music and for art. I know you didn't always like everything I loved when I was a teen, but oh I loved everything you loved when it came to music. I have the Doors, the Beatles, Santana, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass Band, Queen, Sergio Mendes and Brazil 66, Tom Jobim, Gal Costa and so many, many more, not to mention a very particular appreciation for a well done soundtrack. Thank you for the piano lessons that I underutilized and didn't appreciate as much as I should have. Did you know I can play the Celtic Harp now? That is a new acquisition since you died. I've been playing for almost 3 years now and have now played twice in public, once for a group of 300 and once for a group of 600. If I wouldn't have been so worried about botching it, I might have peed my pants. Fortunately for me, neither did I botch or pee...I think you would be proud.
Thank you for languages and for my appreciation of them, and for giving me the opportunity to learn so many. Thanks for making sure that I went to good schools and for helping me learn so much.
Most of all though Dad...I miss being able to call you up and just say "Hey! Guess what happened??" or "Hi Dad--I wanted to ask your advice about..." or "Hey Papa San--I read this awesome book," or "I heard this great album" or " I learned about XYZ and I thought you'd be interested." Thank you for all of the great conversations we had through the years. I'm sorry there weren't more.
You were always a sounding board for my discoveries, and a comfort for my miseries.
Lastly, I wrote you a note today, here it is:
Hey Dad--
It still sucks that you're dead. It never changes. I love you.
Peek in every now and again...give me a cold chill, a "Boo," or something. Anything would be better than the silence of the void.
I miss you.
Love,
Me.
2 comments:
Um... never has anyone's post made me actually cry. You did that today. That was beautiful.
Thanks Kelly--not that I made you cry--just that you got it.
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