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Remembering Dad

Sunday, September 10, 2017


I remember when I was ten and in fifth grade, a classmate asked me out on the playground when my dad died. I told him "four years ago," and in my ten-year-old mind, that seemed like an eternity. I guess it was nearly half of my short life. 

Twenty years later, and the number 24 circles in my mind. A big number. A lot of years. 

When my dad died on September 10, 1993, the world was so different. Pre-2001, of course. Computers were big and boxy and still pretty mysterious to many. My dad loved technology, and I can't help but wonder what he'd think of iPads and phones barely larger and more heavy than a playing card. I wonder where he'd be in his career; maybe almost retired. I wonder if he'd still sneak out to play tennis on sunny mornings, and if maybe I'd join him. I never pass a tennis court without thinking of him. I wonder whether he would have made his dream of owning a bagel shop come true. More often than I'd like to admit, I wonder what it would feel like to hug him; to say, "Hi Dad," like most of you do. Like it's the most normal thing in the world.

As I get older, I wonder how many of my limited memories of him are actually real or if I've made up some out of the stories other people have told. It doesn't matter, really. I like them all. My favorites, though, are the ones where it was only him and me: those I know must be real. Like holding onto his back while he swam across the pool, or sneaking ice pops into the camping tent he put up right in the middle of the den. Or the time he picked me up at the bus stop, a rare and special treat. I remember, one night as we sat in the firelight listening to records, asking him how he knew all of the words to the songs. It amazed me. He assured me that one day I'd be able to sing along, too, and to this day I have this uncanny and mostly useless ability to quickly memorize and recall lyrics to almost any song. You were right, dad.

As much as I miss my dad from a daughter's perspective, as I've gotten older I've missed him in so many other ways. Mostly, I miss him for my mom, who lost her husband in the damn prime of their lives, with two small children and so much still ahead of them. I miss him for my brother, who looks so much like him and embodies so many of his qualities. I miss him for his siblings, and I miss him for his one-time friends. I miss him for all of the people who passed in and out of his life but who he made an impression on. My mom met a woman only a couple of years ago who had worked at the front desk of the racquet club he frequented and who immediately remembered him and how sad she was when she had learned of his passing. 

But then I think about how each of these people -- my mom, especially -- has helped him to live on. What a powerful thing, right? That somebody can be gone for 2.5 decades, and yet we still grieve them, think about them, wonder if they'd be proud. They still count, even though they're not next to us anymore. And in that way, are they ever really gone? Do we die so long as our spirit lives on in others?

I'm not sure... but I like that idea. So today, 24 years later, I'll feel him in the warmth of the sunshine, recognize him in my restless soul, see him in the eyes of his grandchildren, and I'll smile.


6 comments:

  1. I lost my dad just five years ago, and that seems like an eternity for me. I can't imagine 24 years. I'm so sorry for your loss, and I completely understand your feelings! I think of all the "misses" that exist now because of my Daddy's absence: my wedding, birth of our son, a big move to Houston, etc. It's been really, really hard, but I know he lives on (just as you said) in the stories we tell. Sending you some warm thoughts!!

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    1. Thank you for stopping by and sharing that with me -- I am so very sorry for your loss. I can understand how five years seems like yesterday and an eternity all at once. And I can absolutely understand those "misses." It's a sort of club that nobody wants to be a part of, but it does help to talk about them sometimes. <3 Thank you, again... hugs to you!

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  2. Wow that was beautiful. I can't believe it has been that long.

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    1. Thank you! <3 I really appreciate that. It felt good to share a little bit more about him, even all these years later.

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  3. This is beautifully written! So special and yes....even though they are gone they still matter!! You must have an amazing momma too.

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    1. That means so much to me, thank you. <3 She's the very best! I'll always be in awe of her strength. XO

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